


Love Never Dies: An Account of Astonishing Events On Coney Island During the Summer of 1907

by kildeer



Category: Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Amusement Parks, Canon Rewrite, Christine lives, Coney Island, F/M, Fanfiction, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, I've become obsessed with fixing Love Never Dies, Inventors, Love never dies, Music, One weekend that changes everything, POV Child, Parent-Child Relationship, composers, historical fiction - Freeform, performers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23865781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kildeer/pseuds/kildeer
Summary: Ten-year-old Gustave is excited to see America for the first time, especially because he's going to Coney Island. His mother, a famous opera singer, is giving a concert at Phantasma, a wildly popular theme park run by the enigmatic Mr. Y. As the concert draws closer, however, Gustave begins to realize that nothing about the situation is what it seems, and he uncovers a mystery that will change his life forever.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 36
Kudos: 56





	1. Voyage & Arrival

_I’ve spent a long time trying to decide how and where to begin this story, and for some reason I keep coming back to the dolphin. We were less than two days from arriving in New York and a dead dolphin had been caught up against the side of the ship in a tangled nest of seaweed..._

~

I am standing at the ship’s railing with a handful of other passengers, watching as a crewman is dangled over the side on a kind of rope swing, attempting to nudge the seaweed and dolphin loose with a long wooden pole. One of the passengers, an impressive-looking woman swathed in soft furs against the chilly ocean air, is commenting loudly on the distasteful sight of the carcass. While this complaint is likely the reason for the crew’s removal efforts, I cannot bring myself to share the woman’s view. I find the dolphin’s lifeless body rather beautiful, cradled in seaweed and sunlight on the surface of the water. I am composing a lullaby for it in my head when the sailor manning the rope notices my intent gaze.

“Not a mark on her,” he says, “Small though, underfed.”

“Her?” I ask, and he nods, looking thoughtful.

“Sometimes the life just doesn’t take.”

Before I can ask what he means I hear Mother calling for me and turn to see her nearby, neck craning as she scans the deck from beneath her white Battenberg parasol. With her dark auburn hair swept up beneath an elegant white cloud confection of a hat, a hint of rosy color on her cheeks, and her blue-green eyes, she looks almost exactly as she does in the picture postcards which are sold all over Paris. As I leave the railing to join her I can hear the fur-wrapped woman whispering eagerly behind me.

“Look, it’s _her_ , Christine Daae! I told you she was on board.”

Mother’s face brightens with a relieved smile as she spots me.

“There you are. Lunch has arrived, and I was hoping that afterwards you might help me run through my song.”

“Of course,” I say, taking her hand as we leave the deck, ignoring the stares and whispers which inevitably follow us. 

Our cabin aboard the _Persephone_ is one of the best on the ship, the kind of accommodation usually reserved for travelling dignitaries. Mr. Y, the mysterious impresario who has engaged Mother to perform at his concert hall in America, has clearly spared no expense on our travel. We have two bedrooms, two washrooms, a sitting room, and a kind of sun porch lined with windows which look out over the ocean. We enter the sitting room first, where Mother hangs her parasol from a peg by the door, then strides into her and Father’s bedroom to remove her hat while I duck into my room to toss my jacket onto my bed, then almost immediately double back to hang it properly in my wardrobe. Mother is always fussing about my clothes. I stand in the doorway of her room and watch as she carefully places her hat in its tall round box, fluffing up the pale blue tissue paper nest in which it lives. The items atop her dressing table have been meticulously organized; the light of her vanity lamp catches on combs inlaid with mother of pearl and a sparkling crystal bottle of _La Rose Jacqueminot_. Mother catches my eye and I must look amused by her attention to the hat because she grins and rises from the table, fitting the lid of the box in place before turning to me with her hands on her hips and a mock serious expression.

“I hope you hung up your jacket properly, young man.”

“I did, I _did_ ,” I roll my eyes as she comes forward to ruffle my hair. “Why is it so important for me to hang up my jacket?”

“Because when you’re privileged enough to have something, you should take care of it.” 

The ship’s maid has laid out lunch on the table in our sunroom; duck patté and tomato sandwiches cut into perfect white triangles, a bowl of grapes, salad, pitchers of water and lemonade, and a plate of iced butter cookies. A slim white porcelain vase in the center of the table bears yellow roses and blue forget-me-nots. I wonder whether Mother informed our maid that we would not need a place setting for Father, or if she has learned this on her own during our journey. 

“ _La saison de la nourriture froide_ ,” Mother says, half to herself as she takes a seat and surveys our fare.

“Is that from a song?” I ask, taking a bite of my sandwich.

“A poem,” Mother says, sitting up straight and pulling apart her little napkin swan before spreading it over her lap, “written a very long time ago in China.”

“Can you recite it for me?”

She looks across the table at me, her smile soft.

“Perhaps another time. It’s not the most cheerful of poems.”

I want to tell her that this is perfect, that I do not care much for happy poetry, just as I do not particularly care for happy music, but I can see a melancholy shade in her eyes and decide to forego my request for the time being. Later tonight, after Father has returned and he and Mother have retreated to their bedroom, after Father has left our cabin again, the sharp sound of the closing door cutting Mother off mid-sentence, she will come to my room with a thin silk-bound volume. I will close my own book, grateful for the comfort of her presence. Without speaking, traces of bright tears lingering in the corners of her eyes, she will perch on the edge of my bed before opening her book to a marked page and reading the poem to me, her lovely voice flowing over the words more smoothly than the surest wave. I record the poem in full here, because it is not until much later that I will think back on this night and find a new poignancy in my Mother’s reading:

_When I look in the mirror  
My face frightens me. I am  
Afraid of myself. Every  
Spring weakness overcomes me like  
A mortal sickness. I am too  
Weary to arrange the flowers  
Or paint my face. Everything  
Bothers me. All the old sorrows  
Flood back and make the present worse.  
The crying nightjars terrify me.  
The mating swallows embarrass me,  
Flying two by two outside  
My window. Plucked eyebrows,  
Weary eyes - that have grown so hard  
With loneliness. Swallows chirp  
In the painted eaves - but I  
Have lost the ability  
Even to dream of happiness.  
Each new Spring finds me deeper  
Tangled and snarled in bitterness.  
As all the world grows more lovely  
My bowels are torn with sorrow.  
Peach blossoms quiver in the  
Light of the new moon on the first  
Nights of the Season of Cold Food.  
Huge willows in the golden  
Twilight wave their long shadows  
In the clear bright winds of Spring.  
Surrounded by flowers, trapped in  
Pain, I watch the sun set beyond  
The roofs of the women’s quarters._

After we have finished eating, the maid comes to clear away our lunch things and Mother and I crack open the porch windows for the fresh salt air. Mother goes to her room to retrieve an oxblood leather folio, its cover impressed with a single long-stemmed rose. She has also brought the small enameled case in which she keeps her pitch pipe and passes both items to me as I resume my seat at the table. She does not really need the pitch pipe but she has been particularly diligent about preparing for this concert, even though she will only be singing one song. I think she might be nervous about performing in America for the first time. She pours herself a glass of water from the pitcher which has been left for us and begins her warm-up exercises. Once she feels sufficiently prepared she nods to me. I find her starting note on the first page of sheet music and sound it carefully on the pitch pipe. Mother closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then begins the song. Although she is not singing at full power out of consideration for our fellow passengers, her voice is still transfixing, effortless and pure as rain on a spring morning. I never tire of listening to it, nor of watching her perform. Even when rehearsing as she is now, for an audience of one, she transforms completely, her face earnest and full of life, intent on communicating the deep truth of every note and line. 

_And soon as you submit,  
Surrender flesh and bone,  
That love takes on a life much bigger than your own.  
It uses you at whim, and drives you to despair,  
And forces you to feel more joy than you can bear.  
Love gives you pleasure,  
And love brings you pain.  
And yet, when both are gone,  
Love will still remain._

The pause Mother takes at this moment is dictated by the music, but looking at her I can see the doubt flickering across her face. She opens her mouth and begins to sing the chorus, her eyes darting to me at once, and she stops.

“‘Once it has spoken-’” I prompt.

“Right, right,” she says distractedly and starts again. 

_Once it has spoken,  
Love is yours._

She continues flawlessly to the end of the song, and the last soaring phrase, _Life may be fleeting, love lives on!_ , gives me goosebumps as it always does. I love the moment just after a piece of music has ended, when it still fills the air and everyone in the audience seems to be holding their breath in transport.

“I like this song,” I say once its spell has dissipated, “Did Mr. Y really write it just for you?”

Mother looks flushed as she smoothes her hands over the corseted vice of her waist, and I wonder whether she is feeling unwell.

“Yes, according to his letter,” she says.

I look over the now-familiar sheet music, considering the lyrics. I feel as though I know the piece as well as she does at this point.

“He must really like you,” I say. Mother takes a deep breath, her expression brightening abruptly.

“Thank you for helping me rehearse,” she says, “I suppose we ought to find your father.”

I am tempted to mutter that such a search is unnecessary, but instead return her smile. Mother does not need me to point out that we are going to find Father where we always find him. 

~

Night has already fallen by the time we finally disembark onto the docks of New York harbor and I try not to feel disappointed as I look around. While the lights of the great city are undeniably impressive, they are not remarkably different from London or Paris, and there is nothing magically _American_ about the ships or the rain which breaks over us almost immediately. Jocular reporters hunker beneath umbrellas with their notebooks and large boxy cameras. Their braying voices are at least sufficiently American, even if what they say is unusually rude. Speculation regarding Father’s debt and Mother’s stalling career is usually confined to gossip columns back home, but here the taunting questions are shouted directly at us.

“Christine, _CHRISTINE!_ Do you have anything to say about the last-minute cancellation of your recent Italian concert tour?”

“Mr. Chag-nee, you were seen being escorted from your wife’s last performance by theater security before intermission. Can you tell us what happened?”

“Mon-sheer Chag-nee, how much of your family fortune will end up being depleted by your gambling debts?” 

“Christine, why Coney Island? Was the Met not interested in booking you?”

“Have either of you met personally with Mr. Y?”

Mother ducks her head a little so that the brim of her elegant pheasant feathered hat partially conceals her blushing face from their flashbulbs. She squeezes my hand and I squeeze back, wishing I could charge at her harassers and kick them in the knees. I am not proud to say that this is not the first time such violent thoughts have crossed my mind. Beside us, I can feel Father’s anger burning and humming like an engine, one gloved hand gripping the carved silver lion’s head which tops his ebony cane. The other holds aloft his wide black umbrella, and although the figure he cuts is perfectly dignified, the combined effect of rain and embarrassing interrogation renders him an almost comical figure, miserable in his sobriety. For a moment I almost pity him. Shattered bulbs now litter the wet planks of the dock like fallen blossoms, still smoking in the rain, and Father demands that the photographers cease their picture-taking. Blatantly ignoring these protestations, a wiry young man still bearing the scars of adolescent acne elbows his way to the front of the pack and drops to one knee. I barely have time to register that his camera is pointed at me before the bursting flashbulb makes my vision go white, then black as I instinctively close my eyes against it and take a step back, still gripping Mother’s hand. 

“Hey kid! Is this your first time in America?”

I nod without thinking, my eyes still recovering from the miniature sun which has just exploded in front of them, and Father looks as though he is about to bring his cane down on the reporter’s skull, but then a middle-aged woman in a floppy worker’s cap bends down next to the young man, pen poised on her small notepad.

“What are you looking forward to most?”

Her expression is kind, her smile coaxing, and in spite of our current situation I find myself responding to her interest, buoyed by the excitement which has been growing inside of me ever since I found out that we would be coming here. 

“I want to see Phantasma!”

The woman and a handful of her fellows smile at this, it occurs to me that they might just be charmed by my accent, and someone in the back remarks, “Don’t we all!” 

“Leave the child alone,” Father snaps, stepping in front of us, “and I _said_ no more pictures.”

The woman’s face falls and she takes a step back, averting her eyes from him. Father half-turns to Mother and speaks to her in French, his voice low.

“I thought you said someone would be here to receive us.”

Mother stares back at him helplessly for a moment, clearly unsure of what to say, and now that she has lifted her head another round of flashbulbs goes off. I can all but feel the eager silence of the reporters as they watch my parents, alert and ready to pounce on a marital argument between Monsieur and Madame de Chagny. I look between them, feeling powerless and exposed. Before the simmering confrontation can boil over for the benefit of the city papers, a remarkably sonorous and authoritative _honk_ sounds from the bustling road beyond the crowded dock. The reporters turn towards the interruption and our eyes follow, landing upon the most remarkable carriage I have ever seen, if such a thing can even be called a carriage. It is large and black and seems to be made entirely of elegant curves, but most incredible of all is that it moves without horses as smoothly as a cloud. Flowing silver script across its side proclaims _Phantasma_.

“Mother, look!” I say, pointing to it as my heart leaps with relief and excitement, “Do you think that’s for us?”

“Raoul,” Mother says, placing a hand on Father’s arm and indicating the carriage.

“It damn well better be,” Father mutters as he leads us towards it. The crowd of reporters parts for us, their faces resigned in disappointment that their quarry will soon be whisked out of their reach, and the curled husks of blackened glass crunch beneath our shoes. As we approach the carriage its nearest door swings open, revealing an interior of blood-red velvet, and a woman leans out, the easy sardonic curve of her form at once irreverent and inviting. The right side of her face is hidden behind a black and white-checkered mask and her long narrow dress is made of black velvet patterned with curling vines embroidered in glossy black thread. Her short black hair has been slicked back and the visible half of her face is very pale, the corner of her wine-dark lips curling up into a smile as she alights from the carriage and bends at the waist in a graceful bow before she straightens to address us.

“ _Bienvenue invités d'honneur_. Monsieur and Madame de Chagny,” she looks down and smiles at me, “ _Petite maître_ , it is an honor to welcome you to New York.”

Her voice is low, rich and smooth as chocolate. It makes me think immediately that I would appoint a bass clarinet as her standard-bearer in an orchestral reenactment of these events.

“Mr. Y sends his regards and has requested that we escort you to your hotel,” she continues, and her use of the word _we_ catches our attention at once. As if cued, the most enormous man I have ever seen in real life climbs down from the back of the impossible carriage. He seems to be almost three heads taller than Father and three times as broad, his black suit straining across arms and shoulders which appear swollen with muscled flesh, his round bald head placed directly on top of his torso. He wears a black bowler hat and inclines his head towards us with a smile which, compared to the flamboyance of his companion, is surprisingly modest and polite. 

“This is my associate, Mr. Squelch,” says the woman without turning towards him, “and you may call me Gangle.”

Father seems rather put off by all of this, staring at them as though he is still trying to ascertain whether or not they are dangerous, and to my eye Mother’s expression seems tense even as she politely returns their smiles and thanks them for coming to meet us. I, however, am already delighted. Their names, _Squelch_ and _Gangle_ , dropped so casually into the mundane patter of adult conversation, are like bright little presents glimpsed between the dense dark branches of a Christmas tree. Gangle holds out an arm, indicating the plushly expectant interior of the carriage, raindrops sparkling across her mask.

“ _On y va_? Unless you would rather stay here, of course.”

“I certainly would not,” Mother says with sudden authority as she steps forward, leading me by the hand, and Father silently follows, closing his umbrella.

“Our luggage-”

“Not to worry, monsieur. Mr. Squelch will be taking care of it.”

The inside of the carriage is illuminated by dancing gas flames contained within carapaces made of red glass and black metal, and as I settle myself on the bench next to Mother I notice that while the seats are upholstered in red velvet, the walls of the carriage are covered in crimson silk which has been emblazoned with a subtle pattern of roses and masks which only reveal themselves as the light shifts across them.

“Look!” I say, pointing to the wall panel behind us as Gangle climbs into the carriage and takes her seat next to Father on the bench across from us. Mother turns carefully within the confines of her damp voluminous dress to look where I am pointing. An odd stillness comes over her and for a moment in the bloody light she looks much younger than she really is.

“Yes, that's lovely Gustave,” she says as she turns back around, her eyes glancing across the carriage to Father, who is checking his pocket watch and does not seem to be paying attention to us. Gangle, however, is watching Mother take off her gloves with a sphinxlike expression so fixed that it seems as though both halves of her face are masked. We sit in silence for a few minutes, and I have forgotten that Mr. Squelch is fetching our luggage until a great heavy _thump_ shakes the carriage and makes Mother jump next to me, her gloves falling from her lap.

“Do not fear, prima donna,” Gangle says smoothly, reaching down to pick them up, “we will be on our way shortly.”

As Gangle holds out the gloves to Mother I notice her hands for the first time; they are large, with wide palms, long round-knuckled fingers, and thick bony wrists. In the light of the carriage and at such close proximity, I observe Gangle anew and realize that what I had at first taken to be a woman is, at least physically, a man. I have seen men dressed as women before, of course, and women dressed as men, so I cannot quite explain my happiness in this moment, but I am taken by it all the same. The realization of Gangle’s true complexity seems to materialize for Mother, Father and I simultaneously and she elegantly crosses one leg over the other, meeting our wondering expressions with a wink and a thoroughly self-possessed smile. Father’s eyes travel her figure from top to bottom before he turns back to the carriage window, apathetic in his exhaustion. 

Once our luggage has been loaded, Mr. Squelch climbs back onto his perch in the rain and gives the side of the carriage a smart rap of his knuckles. The otherworldly conveyance comes to life at once and we are moving away from the sidewalk and into the flow of traffic. I do not know how long we travel, bouncing and trundling over occasional rough patches in the road. I spend the entire journey looking out the carriage window, leaning so far forward that I am in danger of being unseated every time we go over a bump and Father finally snaps at me to sit back so that I do not smudge the glass with my nose. When I acquiesce to his command Mother’s arm is waiting to wrap around me and she rests her cheek on the top of my head when I lean against her. 

Given the darkness and the persistently battering rain, the view through the window is honestly nothing special, aside from the occasional glimpses of life in this city, illuminated by patches of bright street light; a man locking up a dark storefront, a woman hunched protectively over bags of groceries as she tries to navigate the wet pavements in her low-heeled shoes, a policeman blowing his whistle in the midst of a crowded intersection, arms waving to direct traffic. When the carriage next slows to a halt Gangle glances out the window and informs us that we are waiting to cross a bridge which will take us to Coney Island. I turn to the window eagerly and see a sodden man in rough, threadbare clothes standing under a streetlight in the rain and holding a large hand-painted sign against his chest, presumably for the benefit of the carriages waiting to cross the bridge. The sign reads:

_BEWARE the monstrous debauch of CONEY ISLAND, where New York chases its chimera of PLEASURE!_

I have only been studying English in school for the last three years, and I have to ask Mother to explain the sign to me. She leans forward to squint through the rain as our carriage begins to move again, leaving the haunted-looking man behind.

“I suppose,” she says slowly, looking thoughtful, “what he’s saying is that too much _plaisir_ , too much... _joie de vivre_ , can make people forget their duty to others and become selfish.”

It saddens me to admit that as she explains this my first thought is of Father, but I have never believed that he finds pleasure at the bottom of a glass. Selfishness and debauchery are also not dangers I would have thought to associate with roller coasters and candied apples. Consciously avoiding looking at Father, I turn to Gangle, who has been quietly watching our exchange. 

“Is that really something that can happen here?” I ask her.

The impressive and mysterious being raises an enigmatic eyebrow.

“Anything can happen on Coney Island, _petite maître_.”

As we cross the bridge, the first thing I become aware of are the _lights_. The lights of Coney Island make the lights of New York City seem like a cluster of twinkling lightning bugs. Our carriage proceeds down what must be a grand central avenue lined with hotels, restaurants, and entrances to amusement parks which seem as magnificent as those of mansions and palaces in Europe, and every building, window, tower and statue seems to be garlanded with endless strings of lights.

“Plaster and plywood facades,” Father says, half to himself, his knee bouncing up and down restlessly, “I thought so.” Gangle makes no sign that she has heard him and does not comment.

We round a corner and I realize that we have already come to the edge of the island. Father and Mother’s carriage window shows the blazing lights and colorful painted signs of the dream world, and the window next to Gangle and I looks out onto a boardwalk and a wide sandy beach which stretches away into impenetrable darkness. With a shiver of pleasure that feels oddly like dread, I realize that this is the ocean.

“Ah,” Gangle sighs, the one syllable containing a palpable mixture of affection and pride, “ _Phantasma_.” 

I refrain from jumping up out of my seat at the sound of the name with great difficulty. Mother and Father are both leaning forward to look out their window and I can barely see anything around their hats. The carriage comes to a halt and there is a significant rocking as Mr. Squelch jumps down from his perch. He opens the carriage door and begins to raise his hand to Mother, clearly intending to assist her exit, but Father promptly extends his cane and right leg, thrusting his umbrella into the large man’s hands, even though by this point the rain has abated to little more than a salty mist. Mr. Squelch silently opens the umbrella as Father holds out his hand for Mother to exit the carriage. Seemingly indifferent to Father’s rudeness, Gangle has already slipped out through the door on our side of the carriage, and I follow after Mother.

I am greeted by the most beautiful and awe-inspiring sight yet. The high walls surrounding Phantasma may just be plywood and plaster as Father says, but they are also candied in lush, leafy vines, as well as high-relief sculptures depicting a forest full of fantastical creatures which, as I study them, increasingly resemble monsters, all beautiful strong flanks and long sharp teeth. Beyond the walls I can see a roller coaster undulating like a frozen wave, every inch of it covered with lights, and I can just make out the top of a tower which must stand in the center of the park, a single light flickering from its highest window. The gate to Phantasma is circular, at least thirty feet high, and very oddly shaped. At first I take it to be a sculpture of draped cloth, but then I realize that it is another half-mask, stretched and stylized to curve along the entrance to the park. It occurs to me that an omission has been made, and I turn to Gangle.

“Isn’t there a sign somewhere saying that this is Phantasma?”

Gangle gives me a look of amusement as she folds her arms across her chest and strikes a subtle pose, one hip at a saucy angle.

“Are you implying that we _need_ a sign, _petite maître?_ ”

I grin up at her.

“Come along, Gustave,” Father says. He is standing straight-backed with Mother’s arm linked through his while Mr. Squelch holds the umbrella over them. Mother is silent, her expression neutral, eyes downcast, and I follow her lead, both of us aware that Father’s patience is not to be tried now. Gangle leads us not to the ominously beckoning mouth of Phantasma, but to an equally impressive, if more conventional, building next door. Its first three storeys seem to be attached to the park, and Phantasma’s vines are slowly engulfing its white-washed brick walls. On the fourth floor, double doors lead onto balconies which overlook the park. Rather than strings of lights, each balcony has three small flame-shaped lamps positioned atop curling metal stems, crafted in such a way that they seem to be enchanted blooms put forth by the building itself. The doors of the building’s main entrance look out across the narrow street and have been painted with gleaming deep blue lacquer. A black and silver sign reads _La Maison des Fantasmes_. 

“Is this our hotel?” I ask Mother quietly.

“Yes,” she replies in the same careful tone, “Isn't it lovely?”

Father says nothing and does not acknowledge Mr. Squelch who, soaked to the skin from our carriage ride, holds the door open. Gangle leads us into a magnificently appointed lobby which feels much bigger than the outside of the building would suggest. The decor is strikingly modern, with black lacquer, silver fixtures, white marble and frosted glass, accented by touches of rich cobalt blue and bouquets of delicate coral pink roses. The left side of the large open room is devoted to a long, gleaming bar where well-dressed guests lean towards each other in conversation while cradling their glasses. Several of them look up as we enter, and while I see a flicker of recognition on three or four faces at the sight of my mother, the majority of their attention goes directly to Gangle. More than one female guest clutches the arm of her companion, whispering excitedly. My stomach tenses with resentment and dread as I look over the tiered rows of bottles behind the bar.

“The hotel is Mr. Y’s most recent acquisition,” Gangle says in a lofty tone. The sleekly groomed and handsome young man behind the reception desk catches Gangle’s eye and gives her a deferential nod. At the far side of the lobby is the entrance to a smoky room where a beautiful black woman sings on a small blue-lit stage, accompanied by piano and standing bass. We follow Gangle down a short hallway where she pushes aside a silver metalwork screen to reveal an elevator paneled in cobalt blue silk. An olive-skinned old man wearing a smart black suit stands within and greets us warmly.

“Estevan,” Gangle says, “this is Monsieur and Madame de Chagny and their son Gustave. They will be staying on the top floor this weekend.”

“Very good, mistress,” the old man says with a smile. Gangle winks at me as Estevan pulls the screen closed between us, then turns her attention to my parents.

“I very much hope you enjoy your stay.”


	2. The Mermaid Of Coney Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gustave receives a present and has his first encounter with Mr. Y.

The moment the elevator opens onto the fourth floor Mother’s mouth falls open in wonder, while Father barely contains his groan of disgust. We have emerged into a hallway which runs the length of the building, and every inch of its walls and ceiling has been painted to look like a dense forest full of jewel-bright leaves in every shade of green imaginable. My dazzled eyes do not see any doors at all until Estevan stops and pulls out a ring of keys, and I finally discern the edges of woodwork and a keyhole.

“There are four suites on this floor,” he says, his voice colored by a lovely Mediterranean accent, “You will be staying in these two.”

We enter into an elegant room with pale blue walls and a smooth hardwood floor, its golden planks forming a starburst pattern which radiates from the center of the room. In contrast to the hotel lobby, the touches of black are more infrequent here; a black vase holds a small bouquet of wildflowers, brightly colored paintings of Coney Island sit within black lacquer frames, and small black end tables are nestled between a sofa and armchairs which have been upholstered in cobalt linen. A large bay window on our left overlooks the beach and a white dining table has been centered beneath the window with three matching chairs. A long sideboard stands against the far wall and my heart sinks again as I notice a silver tray bearing a large crystal decanter full of dark amber liquor, an unopened bottle of wine, another of pink champagne enthroned in a bucket of ice, and a handful of neatly stacked glasses. Father’s sigh of relief is audible as he whisks off his top hat and coat, hanging them on the black coat tree next to the door. By the time he has crossed the room to the sideboard his cuffs are already unbuttoned and his bow tie hangs loose around his neck. Wholly unperturbed by this, Estevan begins giving Mother a tour of the suite, walking to a door on the far side of the room. 

“This will be yours and your husband’s room, Madame,” he says, guiding her through.

Mother and Father’s room has the same starburst floor, but the walls are painted a soft sunrise pink. Two windows face the ocean and double doors on the far side of the room open out onto the balcony. The queen-sized bed, end tables, dresser, vanity and chairs are all painted white, and the frame around the large vanity mirror is silver. The blanket covering the bed is patterned with the same leafy forest from the hallway. Between the bedroom doorway and vanity is the entrance to Mother and Father’s en suite, its floor covered in small white tiles. The walls are a pale seafoam green and a magnificently large white clawfoot tub has been positioned so that its bather can look out a window onto Phantasma. 

Back in the dining room, Father is standing facing away from us with one hand on his hip while the other determinedly brings his glass to his mouth, and Estevan leads Mother and I through another door into the sitting room of the adjoining suite. Mother makes a small surprised sound at the sight of a beautiful black grand piano in the far corner, a single long-stemmed red rose placed in the center of its keyboard. Estevan, catching her reaction, smiles with great pride and seems to stand a little straighter.

“Mr. Y had it brought up especially for you, Madame Daaé.”

“Madame de Chagny,” she murmurs, quietly enough that I am not sure whether she intended to correct him at all, as she crosses the room and reverently touches the piano. She picks up the rose and hesitates before bringing it to her chest. Aside from the piano the sitting room is furnished with the same blue sofa, armchairs, and black end tables, but without a sideboard or dining area. Mother absentmindedly adds the rose to the nearest wildflower bouquet, then begins to undo the long line of buttons which run down the front of her coat. Estevan is by her side at once to chivalrously receive the garment and I wander through the door next to the piano into what must be my bedroom and en suite, lit by gently burning gas lamps and the lights of Phantasma which glitter beyond the curtained windows.

Both rooms are furnished just like Mother and Father’s, and I am delighted to have my own balcony overlooking Phantasma. However, one notable difference catches my eye immediately. A toy has been placed in the center of my bedside table. It appears to be a music box with a red circular base which says _Coney Island, New York_ in yellow letters. From this base a mermaid girl sits atop a mossy sea boulder with a wonderfully intricate Ferris wheel rising up behind her. The whole thing is half the length of my arm and I stare at it, open-mouthed in delight. It is as exquisitely crafted as anything in a Parisian toy shop; the mermaid’s scaly green tail has been brushed with some kind of pearly gloss and curves elegantly against the rough dark rock. Her delicate hands seem to be playing with her long yellow hair and her face is turned slightly from the viewer with a kind of dreamy loveliness, every detail painted with what I imagine must be the world’s tiniest brushes. Belatedly, I notice a piece of note paper on the table which reads, in elegant indigo script: _To Vicomte Gustave de Chagny, Welcome to Coney Island_. Very excited now, I carefully wind the music box’s little brass key and laugh as the Ferris wheel begins to turn, a sweet chiming melody filling the room. My joy sours, however, when I hear Father’s voice.

“Yes, yes, that’s enough fawning, thank you. Now if you don’t mind, my family and I have had a long day and would appreciate some privacy.”

He is not properly shouting yet, but his tone threatens it. I cannot make out the exact words of Estevan’s reply but he sounds apologetic, and in short order I hear a door open and close as, presumably, the old man leaves us. 

“That seemed unnecessary, Raoul,” Mother says, “He was welcoming us. I assume that’s what he’s employed to do.”

Her voice is perfectly calm; it would take an expert ear to detect the shadow of impatience and rebuke contained within it. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, I have just such an ear. The mermaid music box has fallen silent now and I wind it again, determined not to let anything spoil the adventure I have waited so long for. I take off my jacket and hat, eagerly hanging them in my authentic Coney Island wardrobe as Father cuts back at Mother. He barely has time to begin, however, when he is interrupted by knocking.

“Oh for God’s _sake_ ,” Father barks, and I edge closer to the half-open door of my bedroom in time to see him turn away and retreat back into the dining room as Mother opens the door for Mr. Squelch, who has brought up our luggage.

“Thank you, Mr. Squelch,” she says, her voice a little louder than usual, possibly to cover the oaths which Father is muttering under his breath in the next room. Upon turning away from Mr. Squelch she spots me and indicates the trolley with a slight tilt of her head, her smile strained.

“Come help collect your things, Gustave.”

I obey, pulling my one small suitcase from the trolley, and am rewarded by the sight of Mr. Squelch grasping Father’s suitcase under his right arm, Mother’s in his right hand, Mother’s second traveling case in his left hand, and balancing her two hat boxes between his left forearm and shoulder as though he were lifting a single tiny kitten. He meets our astonished expressions with a small but deeply satisfied smile as he walks through to Mother and Father’s bedroom, turning sideways so that he can fit through the door. Once he has finished depositing the luggage Mother fetches her little beaded wrist bag and produces ten francs which she presses into his hand, pointedly ignoring the look on Father’s face as she does so.

“My apologies, Mr. Squelch; we have not yet had a chance to exchange our currency-”

“No need to apologize, Madame,” Mr. Squelch says in an astonishingly soft voice as he tips his hat to her, “This line of work, I’ve collected coins from all over the world,” he smiles at each of us in turn, “Hope you can all rest after your journey.”

Once the door has closed behind the gentle strongman Father downs the last of his drink. His face and neck are flushed now, strands of his thick dark gold hair falling over his forehead. He has taken off his suit jacket and pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. His suspenders hang down over his thighs and his soft middle strains the buttons of his white shirt as he turns back, always, inevitably, to the bottle.

“Raoul-” Mother begins wearily.

“ _No_ ,” he says, turning with more speed and steadiness than one would expect, given his progress with the decanter, his voice dangerously quiet and his eyes fierce. “I don’t want to hear it, Christine. Not tonight. I have dealt with the _press_ , and the _freaks_ , and the tawdry, undignified spectacle you have elected to make of yourself _and_ me by performing alongside peep shows and sword swallowers for the benefit of filthy, uneducated, _American_ rabble and I will _not_ be challenged tonight.”

A pause.

“If you care so little for the culture of our surroundings and the class of people I am to perform for, you need not have added your name to Mr. Y’s contract, nor accompanied me on this trip.”

Mother says this easily, but I feel her tension in every word. She has the advantage of clear-headedness, but if Father senses that she is using this to mock or outsmart him, his anger will only get worse. It is obvious that Mr. Y must be spending a fortune for Mother, Father and I to be here, and if there is one thing Father cannot afford to do right now, it is to turn down money, regardless of where it comes from. He moves out of my line of vision, and I watch Mother’s shoulders sink as the sounds of clinking glass and pouring liquid come from the dining room. 

“Honestly,” Father says, and Mother turns away from the sound of his voice, her expression closed off and angry. When she likewise moves out of my sight I assume she has gone to the piano while Father continues, his voice slipping ever so slightly around the edges. “The bloodthirsty _insolence_ of those reporters. You would think they were a pack of hyenas fighting over a carcass. When this _Mr. Y_ does pay up I have a mind to turn right back around and sue the whole American press for _libel_ -”

With sudden resolve, I carefully pick up the mermaid music box and bring it out into the sitting room with my biggest, brightest smile.

“Mother, Father, look!” I exclaim, “There was a present waiting for me in my room!”

I flinch inwardly at the piping childishness of my voice, but I do not think I can bear to listen to another minute of Father’s vitriol. Mother, as I had predicted, is sitting at the piano and turns towards me, looking relieved at my interruption. Father is pacing in the dining room and casts a cursory glance in my direction.

“It’s late, Gustave, you should be getting ready for bed.”

“It’s not that late, not when we’re on holiday. It’s a music box, see? Come listen to the song it plays!”

I cannot deny that there is still a small aching part of me which hopes he will put down his glass and join us. I long for Father to look at me as though I make him happy. Struggling to ignore these thoughts, I place the music box on the floor between the piano bench and one of the blue armchairs and sit cross-legged to wind it again. I hear creaking wood and out of the corner of my eye I see Father enter the room. He sits down heavily in the armchair and I release the little brass knob, angling the mermaid towards him so that he can get the full effect as the Ferris wheel starts to turn. The happy melody does not exist comfortably in the silence between the three of us, like a garment in which every measurement is off by an inch. After a few seconds Father runs a restless hand through his hair and looks down at the almost-empty glass held between his knees. He gets to his feet unsteadily.

“I need some air,” he says as he turns and starts walking towards the dining room.

“Raoul?” Mother says, sounding genuinely surprised as she rises to her feet. Father is already shrugging on his coat and pockets one of the three room keys which have been left on the table for us.

“Don’t wait up,” he says, not looking at either of us, and before Mother can reply the door has closed behind him. I watch the little wooden Ferris wheel slow down and finally come to a stop as the music ends. In Father’s absence everything, even the flowers, seems to take a breath. I stay where I am on the floor.

“I hope he never comes back,” I say quietly.

“You shouldn’t say such things, Gustave.”

“Why not? He doesn’t want to be here. He acts like he doesn’t want to have anything to do with us,” I pause, swallowing, “I don’t understand why he ever comes back at all.”

There is a moment of silence, then the fabric of Mother’s skirt is sighing against the floor as she kneels beside me.

“He comes back because he loves us,” she says.

I lift my face to her incredulously. 

“How is that possible?”

She holds my gaze for a moment, then looks down to where her hands are folded in her lap, slowly turning the gold wedding band on her finger. I can feel her searching for what she wants to say.

“Well,” she begins, “What does it look like when someone loves you?”

I frown at her, unsure suddenly of how to put such an obvious idea into words. _It looks like you_ , I want to say. As her eyes meet mine she seems to sense my thought and smiles, beckoning for me to scoot closer. I do, gratefully, resting my head against her shoulder as she puts her arm around me.

“There are lots of ways in which a person can show you they care about you. I tell you that I love you, but I also _show_ you that love by making sure you’re eating properly, that your clothes are clean and mended, and that you’re courteous to others,” she pauses, “It may not feel like it, but your Father demonstrated his care for you just now when he left.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

She is quiet again. 

“My father drank too,” she says finally, “We never had very much money, but somehow there was always just enough for him to come back from town with a bottle, even when I had no shoes and we were sleeping in a stranger’s hay loft. There were nights when he drank so much that he started talking and arguing with people who weren’t there, and I would have no escape from him.”

She falls silent and I look up, waiting for her to go on. Every other time she has spoken of my grandfather it has been to praise his kindness, his love and genius for music. She has never spoken of this other, darker man, and I am reminded that the famous _Christine Daaé_ is more than a prima donna, more than the Comtesse de Chagny or even my mother. She turned thirty last month and I am beginning to feel as though I will never stop discovering the people she has been.

“Love doesn’t always look the way we expect it to,” she continues, somewhat distantly, “It wasn’t easy, but I finally came to understand two very important things about my father. He loved me, but he was never going to be able to give me everything I needed from him. I chose to love what there was to love.”

I think I understand what she is trying to tell me, but this answer seems so unsatisfying. Am I supposed to love that Father is rude to people of lower station than himself? That he never has time for me, even when he is sober? Am I supposed to love the fact that he does not seem to love me? Why must it fall on Mother and I to look for the best in everything? When will Father bend for us? 

Part of me wants to say these things to her, but the other part, the deeper part, feels how much this day has already cost her in strength and silence. I do not want to add to the weight she carries, so I hold my tongue, hoping that she is able to absorb some comfort from me. Finally, she gives me a last squeeze and lifts my face so that she can kiss my cheek.

“It really is time for you to go to bed now,” she says. “Even on holiday.”

I smile as I get to my feet, holding out my hands to help her do the same, and she gives a little winded laugh once she is standing straight.

“I don’t know that I have ever been so eager to put on my nightclothes.”

I pick up my music box and she bends one last time to plant a kiss on the top of my head before steering me into my room.

“Do you want me to tuck you in?” She asks.

“I'll be alright,” I say, then, hoping I have not hurt her feelings, “I love you, _Maman_.”

She looks exhausted, her eyes still sad, but she smiles.

“I love you too.”

Once she has gone, closing my bedroom door behind her, I return the music box to its table and open my suitcase. After I have changed into my pajamas I bring my toiletries into the en suite and arrange them on a wooden ledge above the sink. Having cleaned my teeth, washed my face and relieved myself, I extinguish the lamps in both rooms. I pull aside the curtains from the glass doors which lead to my balcony and gaze out over Coney Island. Phantasma has finally gone dark; the only light I can see is the one at the top of the tower. It occurs to me that this is where Mr. Y lives. The knowledge arrives so strangely, not as speculation or a logical conclusion, but as though someone has spoken truth directly into my mind. I do not even think to question my own certainty.

Leaving the curtains open, I reach out to the music box, winding it as far as it will go before getting into bed. The music plays, and I watch the Ferris wheel turn while the beautiful mermaid remains frozen, forever running her hands over her hair, alone within her secret world. When the music runs out I wind the machine again, watching the wheel go around and around. As it always does, sleep catches me unawares, and the next impression I have is of darkness and disorientation. I am stumbling, dragging and pulling my legs against a thick sinking morass, with no safe destination in sight. A great sucking _roar_ fills my ears, and I am suddenly overtaken by a wave, ice cold and so crushing _strong_ that my knees buckle instantly, salt water filling my mouth and nose. I barely have time to feel for the sand beneath me when it vanishes, and I am tumbling helplessly back with the wave into the darkness. That is when I realize that something, _someone_ , has a hold of my arm. 

In the submarine corpse light, I turn my head to see long webbed hands with broken fingernails, and arms so thin that the outline of every sinewy muscle is visible. A swirling mass of black seaweed opens, becoming hair as a face emerges from its depths. _The mermaid_ , I think, my terror suffocating. She is the sickly soft color of a fish’s belly, her eyes dark and sunken, catching the light like glittering chips of black flint in the depths of a cave. I cannot breathe. My strength collapses like the sand as I struggle, trying to twist away from her, and all I can see is her mouth opening, jaws expanding with rows upon rows of _teeth_.

With the last of my strength I wrench my arm against the mermaid’s grasp, and when it comes free I am rolling across my bed in _La Maison des Fantasmes_ , blanket and sheet twisting around my legs, my fingers digging into the edge of the mattress. My body goes cold, hot, then cold again as I gasp for air, shivering. I can still feel the burning suffocation of water filling my skull and the touch of the mermaid’s cold, clammy skin. Knowing that it was just a nightmare does almost nothing to quiet my pounding heart, nor to dispel a vision of the mermaid coming ashore and dragging herself through the hotel lobby, slavering in pursuit of me.

Still trembling, I get up and walk to my bedroom door, careful to open it silently and peek into the sitting room, lest I should be met with Father sprawled across the sofa. There is no sign of him and I rush through to the dining room. The lamp posts across the street from the hotel are illuminated, and the point of light which catches the now almost empty decanter on the sideboard is as bright as a star. I hastily open the door to Mother and Father’s room, feeling as though I will be snatched into the night if I fail to move quickly enough. The bed looks untouched, and as my eyes dart about the room I spot Mother’s faint silhouette through the curtains which are drawn across the balcony doors. Feeling lightheaded with relief, I run across the room, fling back the curtains and burst out onto the balcony, throwing my arms around her as she twists in alarm.

“Gustave, what-?”

“I had the worst nightmare, _Maman_ , I was out on the beach and the waves were breaking over me and there was a mermaid, a vicious one with claws and horrible dark eyes and she was dragging me down to tear me apart and _eat_ me!”

“Oh sweetheart,” Mother says gently, cradling my head and patting my back, “I’m so sorry; that sounds terrible.”

“I know it was just a dream,” I go on, my words half muffled in her dress, “but it felt so _real_. My chest is still aching like I haven’t been able to breathe.”

“It will be alright,” she pauses, her hands stilling where they gentle me, “Gustave, we have a visitor.”

I start, looking up at her, then follow her gaze over my shoulder to the other end of the small balcony, and a quaking shudder moves through my whole body. A man is standing there, pressed so close to the wall of the hotel that he almost seems to be growing from it with the vines. If it were not for the glowing lamps on the balcony he might have blended in completely, his stillness is that profound, and he is dressed all in black, a kind of mourning coat which falls to his knees. His hair is black as well and slicked back from his face, the right side of which is covered by a white mask. Startled by his presence and embarrassed by the scene I have just made, I let go of Mother and turn towards him.

“This is Mr. Y,” Mother says, speaking in English now, “It actually happens that he and I are...old friends.”

Something in my mother’s voice is keeping me off-balance, but I do not know what it is, and my manners seem to have abandoned me completely. I say nothing. When Mr. Y finally moves, straightening to his full height and taking a step towards us, I cannot suppress another involuntary start and Mother’s hands on my shoulders give a reassuring squeeze. I do not believe that he is much taller or broader than Father, but somehow it feels as though he is both of these things. My immediate impressions of Mr. Y are of physical strength and watchfulness. He holds his hands behind his back and makes a small bow to me. His eyes are very dark, focused and intelligent. Oddly, he seems to be wearing stage makeup. 

“Welcome to Phantasma, young vicomte.”

“Thank you,” I reply, privately grateful that he is not holding out his hand for me to shake.

“I apologize that your first night here has been so unpleasantly disrupted,” he continues in French, with an ease of speech which makes me conclude that he must be a performer, “but as the master of Coney Island, I can personally assure you that while our merpeople may occasionally snatch an unattended dog, they have never shown any particular inclination towards children.”

Thoroughly caught off-guard by this remark, I find myself smiling up at him, and although his expression is somewhat difficult to read in general, the slight smile on the left side of his mouth does not seem to carry any mockery or ill intent. His gaze moves from me to my mother and there is an infinitesimal shift in his expression which I am unable to interpret. 

“Seeing as you’re going to be rather engaged in the rehearsal process tomorrow, may I propose a tour of Phantasma for the boy? Anything he wants, free of charge.”

My heart leaps in excitement and I turn to look up at Mother, who is staring at Mr. Y, her lips parted in surprise.

“That-that’s very generous,” she stammers, looking down and smiling at the expression on my face, “Does that sound like something you would be interested in?”

“Of course! May I please?”

“I’ll need to make sure it’s alright with your Father, but I think there’s a good chance he’ll say yes,” she clears her throat, her smile slipping a little, “Do you have anything to say to Mr. Y, Gustave?”

I turn back to the strange dark man, beaming.

“Thank you very much, sir!”

“You and your parents are my honored guests; it’s my pleasure.”

While he says this cordially, offering another deferential inclination of his head, the pleasant expression he had previously worn seems to have mellowed, as though he is rapidly losing the strength to muster it. I wonder whether he is in some kind of pain which he is struggling to conceal.

“I apologize, Madame,” he says abruptly, standing straight and blinking as though emerging from the depths of some passing reverie, “I should leave you. It’s very late and I’m sure you’ve had quite a taxing day.”

Mother’s hands tighten again, briefly, on my shoulders.

“I’ll see you out. Gustave, are you alright to go back to bed?”

I blink up at her. Having momentarily forgotten my nightmare, I suddenly feel a renewed quickening of fear at the prospect of returning to my bedroom, but I do not want to appear more childish to Mr. Y than I already must.

“Yes, Mother.”

She sees me back to my room and I allow her to tuck me in without protest, grateful for the familiarity of the gesture. Afterwards she perches on the edge of my bed, looking uncertain.

“Gustave,” she says, watching my face, “I don’t think we need to tell Father about Mr. Y’s visit tonight.”

Her tone is light, but I can tell that the unspoken request is of great importance to her.

“Yes, _Maman_ ,” I say promptly, with no twinge of conscience. It is certainly not the first time Mother and I have made such an agreement where Father is concerned. She gives me a warm, if somewhat anxious smile, then stands and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her. I listen to her footsteps retreat across the sitting room, then I climb out of bed and pad silently to my bedroom door, pressing my ear to the crack and straining to listen for their voices, imagining that Mr. Y will come in from the balcony and join Mother in the dining room before they leave the suite together, but although I wait for several seconds, I do not hear anything. Confused, I tiptoe into my en suite and listen at the seafoam green wall. Still I hear nothing. 

Thinking quickly, I go to the large clawfoot bathtub. I have to step inside of it, shivering as my bare feet touch the bottom of the basin, in order to get at the window. I slide back the lock and carefully inch the window open, fearful that any squeak will expose me. Cool, salty air which smells distinctly of fish comes whispering into the bathroom as I listen, and once more I am disappointed. Propelled to greater daring by my own curiosity, I open the window just high enough that I am able to stick my head through. Looking across the side of the building to Mother’s balcony I can see the lamps, the hotel’s thick covering of leaves stirring in the wind, but nothing else. The balcony is empty and the double doors appear to be closed.

I pull my head back inside, standing somewhat absurdly in the bathtub as I hold very still, hardly daring to breathe, listening. When I do finally hear something the noises are mild and undramatic; a heavy object being set on the floor, soft bare footsteps going into the other bathroom, a rush of water as the sink faucet is turned on. I can picture Mother standing in front of it wearing her dressing gown as she prepares herself for bed. I hear nothing whatsoever which might indicate the presence of a third person anywhere in our suite. Did I simply not hear Mr. Y exit through the dining room door? When Mother said that she was going to see him out, was she never intending to leave the suite herself?

A preposterous thought occurs to me and, unable to dismiss it, I close and lock my bathroom window before climbing out of the bathtub, moving as carefully and silently as I can. I tiptoe back into my bedroom and out onto my balcony, stepping up to the railing. The wall which runs around the entirety of Phantasma is only as high as the second floor of _La Maison des Fantasmes_ , and is pressed so close to the outer wall of the hotel that I can make out no gap of any kind between them, just the flood of thick leafy vines which spill from one up onto the other and climb the building like the ever-growing web of a spider. I reach out to touch the nearest patch of this growth, sliding my hand beneath the leaves to feel for the vines themselves. Most of them seem to be no thicker than my index finger. I grasp one in my fist, chafing my knuckles on the brick wall beneath, and give it a tentative tug. When the vine continues to hold fast to the wall I tug again, with as much strength as I can manage, yet still the vine maintains its grip. I let go of it and consider once more the wall of Phantasma below my balcony. 

Expecting to see a multitude of buildings akin to a walled village as I squint into the darkness, I am surprised and intrigued to see organic forms, a thick band of what appears to be forest running along the inside walls of the park. The roller coaster rises up out of this wood, its elegantly curving track dipping improbably above and below the tree tops around the back of the park before disappearing into them halfway down the other side. At the very back of the park there is a break in the forest, and I can just make out what appears to be an exceptionally grand building even larger than our hotel, made of pale stone which glows in the night. My first thought is that this must be Mr. Y’s concert hall, where Mother is going to be performing Sunday night. Scanning the park once more, my eyes catch again upon the central tower, where a solitary light continues to shine.

I shake my head. It is absurd to imagine that vines which could withstand the insistent pull of a ten-year-old boy could just as easily bear the full weight of a grown man, even one possessing as rare and improbable a genius as Mr. Y is rumored to have. I reason that he must have come in from the balcony while Mother was tucking me in, and that he took his leave before I could get to my bedroom door. These ruminations are interrupted by the cascading roll of unseen waves emanating from the darkness beyond the street lights, as though a whispering voice is coaxing my restless mind to _hush...hush...hush…_

Shivering as another chill wind moves through my thin summer pajamas, I go back inside, silently closing and locking the balcony door. I cast one more glance at the delicate metalwork of the balcony railing, which looks as though it would fold back like thinly sliced cheese if pulled upon, and hesitate before closing the curtains. I keep the lamp closest to my bed lit and pick up my copy of _Frankenstein: ou le Prométhée Moderne_ from the vanity. For a moment I regard my Coney Island music box warily, prepared for it to inspire another bout of irrational fear and wondering whether I ought to hide it away somewhere, but the little wooden mermaid in her fresh bright paint could not be more unlike the charnel house siren from my nightmare. Mr. Y’s avowal of the Coney Island merpeople comes back to me and I cannot help but smile again. I settle down in bed with my book and read less than three pages before sleep overtakes me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a little hesitant to spend so much time describing their hotel rooms, but so much is going to be happening there that I felt it would be useful to map it out thoroughly, plus I also just had a lot of fun decorating my imaginary Coney Island hotel :) I took liberties with the design of Gustave's music box in order to tie together some foreshadowing I'm trying to build (the dead dolphin, the constant presence of the ocean, the lovely mermaid and the nightmare mermaid...) This is the first time I've ever tried to adapt a musical into prose, and it was a really interesting challenge to turn a song like "Look With Your Heart" into a real conversation between two people (What is musical-Christine trying to say? What is _my_ Christine trying to say? How do the changes I'm making to the story change this interaction? Etc.) The thing I love most about Gustave's first encounter with Erik in the original version of LND is that they have an immediate rapport, and it was a lot of fun to find my own interpretation of that moment :) I also originally considered having Gustave read _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ , but then I thought of _Frankenstein_ and the thematic connection was too good to pass up :D


	3. Backstage Reunions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gustave enters Phantasma, where surprises await in the basement of Mr. Y's concert hall.

I wake in the morning to a knock at my bedroom door before it opens and Mother leans in, her eyebrows raised in mock severity.

“Breakfast has been brought up, young man, and if you want to come to Phantasma with Father and I you'd better be quick about it.”

“I’m up, I’m up,” I say around a jaw-cracking yawn as I stretch, my book falling off of the bed and onto the floor with a tidy _thwak_. Mother smiles, amused, and leaves me to it. As I enter the sitting room half an hour later, the first thing I see is Father sitting at the table in a pristine summer suit reading an American newspaper, a cup of coffee in his hand and a mostly untouched plate of food at his elbow. The unanswered mysteries of his absence and return can only be glimpsed in the lavender shadows beneath his eyes, the slight pallor of his cheeks, and the two-day growth of bristles along his jaw. His hair has been combed back with pomade in part, I believe, to disguise the fact that it could do with a wash. Mother is sitting at the opposite end of the table, looking only marginally better rested in a canary yellow dress which brings out the amber in her hair and the slight hint of green in her eyes. She is moving with care, soundlessly pulling out a chair for me as I approach the table.

“Good morning, Gustave,” Father says without looking up from his paper. I have begun to understand that his coolness on mornings like this must have something to do with embarrassment and shame, but I still want to make a rude face and refuse his greeting. Mother catches my eye.

“Good morning, Father,” I say as I sit down for breakfast.

~

Stepping out the front door of the hotel is like emerging into a whole new world. Coney Island is without a doubt the noisiest, brightest, most _alive_ place I have ever seen. It is not yet nine in the morning and all I can see are people thronging from the sidewalk down the beach and into the rolling water which sparkles blindingly beneath a cloudless sky. Father ducks his head away from the light at once with a grimace. Mother has hold of my hand, her other arm clutching Mr. Y’s oxblood folio to her chest, and she smiles down at me, her large yellow hat blocking out the sun.

“With so many people, I might not even have to worry about being recognized here,” she says brightly.

I cannot help but agree with her. Shrieking children run through the sand, weaving around strolling couples and sunbathers, and delighted screams come in swooping waves from people on amusement park rides. In one direction a band is performing on the boardwalk, and in the other a slim girl dressed all in pink sequins and feathers is riding a _live bear_ down the middle of the street as though it were a horse. In such a thronging melee of humanity I do not know that an appearance by the Queen of England herself would cause much of a spectacle.

“Let’s get on with this,” Father says, the mildness of his voice as strained as an overstrung violin.

A few short steps take us to the main entrance of Phantasma, where the iron gates beneath the enormous carving of Mr. Y’s mask have been flung open, revealing a ticket booth and fence with two swinging gates. The gate to the right says _Welcome_ and the gate to the left says _Until Next Time…_ in curling gold script. I notice suddenly that every other person exiting the park is wearing a mask on the right side of their face, but unlike Mr. Y’s, these have been painted with butterflies and sunsets, flowers and dragons and all manner of strange device, which must be customized for each individual because I spot no two the same.

“Mother, look!” I say, pointing to the masks, and she squeezes my hand repressively.

“Yes, Gustave,” she says, her tone quiet yet firm as we follow after Father. I am momentarily stung by her assumption that I was about to blurt out our secret, but I say nothing. 

Every side of the ticket booth is covered in brightly colored posters advertising Phantasma’s attractions, and I am delighted to see that the most prominent of these proclaims: _Christine Daaé, the Soprano of the Century making her American Debut at Phantasma! One Night Only!_ The illustration has been copied from one of Mother’s most popular publicity photographs. In it she appears to be mid-turn, her lovely face caught by a ray of angelic light which she gazes up into with a radiant smile. She must have already told them what she plans to wear for the performance, because every detail of the cobalt blue gown has been rendered exactly, down to touches of silver foil on her jewelry and peacock hair comb which must have been painstakingly applied by hand. 

The bottom right corner of the poster features a second, smaller advertisement; an illustration of a girl with a wild mass of fiery red curls half pinned up beneath a crown of bright green feathers. The image is all movement and energy, her pale arms and shoulders left bare by her fitted showgirl costume, a short skirt of jewel-toned feathers tossing about her hips. Her red-lipped mouth is open as though in a burst of vivacious laughter, and the text around her picture says: _Featuring Coney Island’s Very Own Ooh-La-La Girl!_

“Mother, look!” I say again, unable to help myself, pointing at the poster.

“Yes, Gustave, I see it,” Mother says distractedly as the ticket booth operator, a genial-looking man who has waxed the ends of his moustache into perfect circles, squints up at us in recognition.

“Right on through and enjoy your visit,” he says brightly, gesturing towards the _Welcome_ gate. 

“Pardon, but don't we owe you anything?” Mother asks. The man shakes his head with a flattered smile, waving his hands at us.

“Well I should think not,” Father says, already heading towards the gate, “You are his star attraction, after all.”

Mother thanks the ticket booth man and prompts me to do the same as we hurry to follow after Father, who is striding confidently into the park. We emerge from beneath a low awning which is either there to shield the ticket booth and gates from rain, or is meant to delay the moment of revelation as the full vision of Phantasma comes into view. My jaw drops at once and I do not think to close it for several seconds.

To enter Phantasma is to suddenly find oneself in an enchanted wood, with the mysterious tower, which I refer to automatically in my head as _Mr. Y’s tower_ , rising up from its center. A wide brick path leads us forward with smaller paths branching off into the trees. The forest flummoxes me almost immediately, because now that I am seeing it in the full light of day, I realize that it cannot all be real. Some of the trees are far too large, impossibly shaped, and on conveniently wide trunks and branches the park attractions have been carved in white: _Miss Fleck: Aerialist Extraordinaire, The Maze of Mirrors, The World’s Strongest Man, Mysteries of Ancient Persia, The Exorcist’s Drum._ All around us park guests are ducking into hollow trunks or laughing nervously as they follow the winding brick paths into leafy darkness, and I realize that the actual buildings of the park have been built into the forest so as to be completely invisible. When I look up at Mother it seems that she has realized this as well, and I am delighted by the expression of genuine wonder and curiosity on her face. I cannot see Father’s face, but the downward angle of his head suggests that he is keeping it lowered to avoid the sunlight.

As we approach the center of the park the main path splits in two around the tower, the base of which is surrounded by magnificent rose bushes the height of a man, bearing blooms of a dozen varieties and colors. The vines which engulf the walls of the park have been given free reign here as well, spreading up the sides of the tower with a kind of unrestrained joy which delights the eye. I find myself smiling again, craning my neck to see the topmost windows.

“Mother,” I say, phrasing my question carefully, “Do you think Mr. Y lives up there?”

Mother’s gaze follows mine as the shadow of the tower moves across her face, her expression unreadable.

“I suppose it’s a possibility,” she says.

“I don’t see a door though. Do you think he uses a ladder to get in and out?”

Mother looks away from the tower, shaking her head with a small, false laugh.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Gustave.”

To our right I spot the entrance to Phantasma’s roller coaster, a large gap between two trees which have been wrapped in twinkling colored lights and carved with the words _Flight of Fancy_. As people enter between the trees I see them ascending a staircase which must lead to the boarding platform. There is a ponderous, strained mechanical sound as a car full of guests is slowly carried to the apex of the track’s first hill, but just when it seems as though the ride might be stalling in malfunction, the car suddenly plummets with the smooth speed of a diving bird to a chorus of screams.

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” Mother murmurs as we watch the car’s journey along its track, “I must admit that I find it rather difficult to imagine how such a thing can be safe.”

“I suppose it would have to be tested a lot,” I say, “to determine how much weight and inertia the track can bear while remaining stable, and then making sure that the car never travels faster than that.”

“Not to mention designing the car in such a way that people don’t simply go flying out of it,” Mother adds, a note of anxiety in her voice. A thought occurs to me and I almost jump on the spot with excitement.

“Do you think I’ll be able to ride the roller coaster when I go on my tour of the park?”

“Absolutely not,” Father says without turning to look back at us, his voice somehow managing to sound at once resolute and unconcerned, “I will not have the heir to the Chagny name perishing on some American death trap.”

“The park has no shortage of attractions, Gustave,” Mother says gently, “I’m sure you’ll have a marvelous time even without a roller coaster.”

I manage to get in a minute or two of good fervent sulking over this denial, but when I look up from my shoes we have arrived at Mr. Y’s concert hall, and the sight of it up close makes me forget my disappointment entirely. 

The pathway has spread into a courtyard before wide stone steps, which lead up to the hall’s double doors and the most stunning sculpture in the whole park. Emerging from the front of the cream-colored building is an angel with folded wings wearing a flowing Grecian dress, an unfurling scroll of sheet music in her hands. Her hair cascades down over her shoulders in loose curls, and her heart-shaped face is beatific and lovely as it looks out over Phantasma with a gentle smile. My first thought is that she reminds me of Mother. While the whole park has been beautiful and exquisitely crafted, the concert hall and its angel at once feel out of place, as though they were scooped up out of Rome and bewilderingly deposited here on Coney Island. Reinforcing this odd sense of displacement, a souvenir stand is positioned on either side of the courtyard, and guests are queued up in long lines, eagerly waiting for their custom-painted masks. 

Father has finally come to a halt at the steps of the concert hall, and as Mother and I draw level with him I am privately gratified to see that he is impressed in spite of himself, his eyes traveling over the spectacular edifice as though trying to find a point of disparagement and finding none. The hall is at least a full storey taller than our hotel, with an exquisite dome rising from its top which is surrounded by a host of angelic statuary. From where we stand I can see guests congregating along the stone railing of what must be a second courtyard on the roof of the front lobby. The great building is flanked by meticulously tended gardens where stone maidens rest beneath the fruit trees, emptying their water jars into lily ponds. I look up at Mother to find that she has gone rather pale, standing perfectly still and gazing up at the concert hall as though she herself has been turned to stone.

“The musical director is expecting me,” she says abruptly, as though in answer to a question no one has asked, looking away from the building and attempting to gather up her long skirts without relinquishing me or the oxblood folio.

“I can carry it for you,” I offer, holding out my free hand for the folio, but she ignores me and the three of us proceed up the stairs to the open doors of the hall, which resemble those of a European cathedral. This aura of sanctity is amplified by the fact that there are no _Coming Attraction_ posters or park advertisements to be seen here. The walls inside are all of the same smooth cream stone, and the floors are polished grey marble with flecks of quartz which catch the light from tall cut glass windows. Decoration within the concert hall is sparse; elegant statues are spaced along the walls, each set into its own alcove like a religious icon, and large black vases offer up kaleidoscopic bouquets of flowers. Every visitor in the lobby seems to come under its spell at once, whether entering from the park or the theater, where a show seems to have just ended even though it is not yet ten o’ clock. They sink into an almost reverential silence within the lobby, arm in arm as they proceed slowly from statue to statue in contemplation or sit on one of the many stone benches along the walls. From the lobby, two grand staircases carpeted in cobalt blue rise to form the mezzanine, then continue up to the balcony levels. The doors to the theater stand tantalizingly open, but too far away for me to catch more than the impression of dramatic light and shadows and _blue_. 

The Phantasma employees stationed behind the reception counter recognize Mother at once and one of them rings a small brass bell which summons Gangle less than a minute later. A consummate androgyne, she is wearing fitted men’s slacks, knee-high black leather riding boots, and a woman’s white jacket with gigot sleeves and black lace. Somewhat jarringly she is not wearing her checkerboard mask, and her face has been meticulously painted like that of a prima donna, her lips as red as holly berries.

“ _Bonjour, honorables invités_. I trust the new day finds you well?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Father mutters, while Mother returns Gangle’s smile and says, “We are, thank you.”

“I’m glad to hear it; come right this way,” Gangle says in her smooth, unruffled manner as she leads us through a side door off the lobby marked _Park Employees Only_. This is yet another world, one I am immediately familiar with. It is the land of _Backstage_ , where the corridors are dim and cramped, the materials utilitarian and without artifice. We follow Gangle down two flights of narrow stairs to a long hallway lit by gas lamps ensconced along the walls, where the doors we pass are labeled according to their uses. People begin to appear as the hallway branches into other hallways which become stairwells with stage guides inscribed above them. We attract little more than curious glances from the men and women edging around us, their faces still painted, some wearing their stage costumes while others are in dressing gowns, all of them busy, turning Backstage into a thrumming hive of activity which Gangle strides through with the authority of a ship’s prow. Finally we reach a door labeled _Rehearsal 1 & 2_ and she holds it open for us to enter. 

This is also a familiar space, one large low-ceilinged room with smooth wooden flooring, at the far end of which a number of dancers, mostly women, appear to be taking a break. An electric fan has been positioned in one corner behind a large bowl of ice and they take turns fanning themselves before it. The other half of the room has a small upright piano, stacked chairs and music stands. In the back a grandmotherly woman in a cap and apron is presiding over a modest refreshments table, pouring tea and coffee for the dancing girls. A dignified middle-aged man wearing suspenders and shirt sleeves stands behind the piano, looking through sheet music which has been spread across the top of the instrument, a pencil poised in his hand and another tucked behind his ear. He looks up at the sound of the door opening and his face breaks into a delighted smile at the sight of Mother. He puts the pencil he is holding behind his other ear and comes forward, clasping his hands in front of him.

“Madame de Chagny,” he says, his voice rich and deeper than I would have expected, “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to finally meet you. I was fortunate enough to see your Violetta in Madrid and have been an ardent admirer ever since.” 

“This is Mr. Carlisle Sherhorn,” Gangle says obligingly, “our esteemed musical director and chief choirmaster. He will be working with you personally in preparation for your performance.”

“That’s so kind, thank you. It is a pleasure to be here,” Mother says, finally letting go of me so that she can take off her gloves to shake Mr. Sherhorn’s hand, “This is my husband Raoul and our son, Gustave.”

Mr. Sherhorn shakes hands with Father and I, his energetic manner and ruddy complexion creating a unique kind of rough handsomeness which strikes me as extremely American. Before he and Mother can begin discussing his plans for their rehearsals, a young woman breaks away from the cluster of dancers on the other side of the room and comes hurrying over to us, not walking or running as one normally imagines those actions, but gliding like a gazelle on long powerful legs, toes subtly pointed.

“Christine?” 

Everyone turns towards her. She is petite and beautiful with a round open face and lithe dancer’s limbs, stripped almost to her underclothes so that she may quickly change into costume, but the most eye-catching thing about her is a riotous mane of gleaming red curls which I recognize at once from the posters. Her eyes are as blue as a doll’s and she looks nervous and excited, self-consciously twisting her fingers. Mother’s lips part in amazement.

“ _Meg?_ ”

The young woman smiles, blushing, and holds out her arms for a moment as though asking permission before stepping forward and embracing Mother, who is still blinking at her in disbelief when they separate. I look up at Father to see that he appears even more dumbstruck than Mother, indeed as though he has seen a ghost, his sardonic face slack with shock. 

“What…” Mother begins, her voice faint, “What are you doing here?”

Meg’s smile falters a little and she looks between Mother and Father as though fearing she has misunderstood the question.

“I work here,” she says, valiantly attempting a light-hearted giggle. “Usually I’m one of the star attractions, but you’re all anyone has been able to talk about for weeks now.” 

Mr. Sherhorn smiles at us in an apparent attempt to lighten the awkward moment and puts an arm around Meg’s bare shoulders, regarding her with obvious fatherly pride.

“Meg is Coney Island’s Ooh-La-La Girl; people come from all over the city to see her.”

Meg averts her eyes and smiles, but says nothing.

“I saw you on the poster at the ticket stand,” I say, unsure of what compels me to speak.

Meg looks down at me as though only now registering my presence and Mother puts her arm around my shoulders, prompting me forward to stand in front of her.

“Meg, this is my son, Gustave. Gustave, this is Meg Giry; she and I were ballet girls together in Paris.”

“Thick as thieves and practically sisters,” Meg adds, winking as she holds out her hand to me, “It's lovely to meet you, Gustave.”

“Likewise, thank you,” I say at once as I shake her hand, stopping myself at the last moment from adding that Mother has never mentioned having such a friend.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Father speaks in French, his voice low and hard-edged. It makes me drop Miss Giry’s hand in alarm and I feel Mother tense behind me. His question is directed at Miss Giry and her friendly expression falls away like a stone dropped into deep water. Before anyone can answer him, however, the door behind us opens.

“Mother,” Meg says in a strained cheery voice, “Look who’s finally arrived!”

We turn towards the door where a thin older woman dressed all in black has just entered the room. My first thought is of a ragged crow somehow transformed into a human being, but this association alone is not enough to convey my immediate, visceral reaction to the woman. She is pale and unsmiling, her white-rooted black hair pulled back from her high forehead in a long knotted plait. Her severe dress covers her from chin to wrist to toes, corset pulled so tight that she stands with the rigidity of a dress mannequin. Her expression is enigmatic, slate-grey eyes moving deliberately over our faces. 

“Christine,” she says, the sound of her voice startling, “Raoul. So good to see you again.” She looks down at me and her eyes are utterly unreadable. “And you must be Gustave. Welcome.”

She holds out her hand to each of us in turn, and as I shake it I feel myself recoil inwardly with the same instinctive aversion which I might feel towards broken glass in the path of my bicycle tires.

“It appears you already know Madame Giry,” Gangle says, the only person who seems immune to the palpable discomfort of these introductions. The other dancers, as well as the woman at the refreshments table, have gone still as they watch the encounter, not bothering to disguise their curiosity. Gangle continues. 

“She is not only head choreographer for our dancers, but also leads the production of our shows and represents Mr. Y as his business partner.”

In response to this rather glowing proclamation, Madame Giry cuts her eyes in Gangle’s direction with a flash of annoyance so pronounced and inexplicable that it makes me doubt my own eyes. 

“ _Mr. Y…_ ” Father says under his breath, and when I look up at him I am astonished to realize that he is _furious_ , the muscles in his jaw and neck tightening. 

“Will you please excuse us for a moment?” He says to no one in particular before putting one hand on Mother’s back while separating her from me with the other. The glimpse I catch of Mother’s face is the same pale, closed-off look she had last night, as though she is retreating inside of herself. 

Father leads her to the far corner of the room, between the wall and the stacks of chairs. Mother’s back is to us so all I can see is the burning in Father’s eyes, his lips barely moving as he whispers to her in French. Mr. Sherhorn is attempting to engage Madame Giry in conversation regarding the day’s performances, so I am unable to make out what Father is saying beyond an impression of demand. I cannot hear what Mother says in response, but she is shaking her head, one arm still clutching the folio to her chest while Father has her other wrist gripped in his hand. Father’s jaw clenches and Mother’s shoulders hunch slightly in pain as his hand tightens around her wrist. 

I have taken a step towards them before I am aware of it, only realizing my intentions when a firm hand is placed upon my shoulder. I look up to see Gangle regarding my parents, her expression cool, but when she speaks her voice is light and amiable, cutting through all conversations.

“ _Excusez-moi, monsieur et madame_ , but might this be an appropriate time for me to escort the young vicomte on his tour of the park?”

There is a brief suspended moment in which Mother and Father realize that they have been spoken to and then process what Gangle has said. Father releases Mother’s wrist with an impatient motion and takes a step back from her, silently chewing on his unspoken words as she quickly pulls herself together. The feigned brightness in her face as she turns towards us is terrible.

“I think that sounds like a wonderful idea, thank you, Mistress Gangle,” she pauses, raising her eyebrows at me pointedly, “Gustave? Does that sound like a good idea to you?”

It is clear that she wants me to go, does not want me to see whatever is happening between her and Father, and my desire to protect her is exactly balanced by my complete inability to do so. Mother must see this in my face because she comes forward and bends down in front of me, cupping my cheek in her palm.

“I’m alright, sweetheart,” she says quietly, “You’ve been looking forward to this for so long; I want you to enjoy it.”

I watch her for a moment, still reluctant, but there is a gentle insistence in her eyes, and I cannot deny that I long for escape. I am confused and frightened and wearied to the brink of tears by Father’s mercurial temper and the hard knot of anxiety it creates in the pit of my stomach. I nod, and Mother gives me a melancholy smile before she straightens up and thanks Gangle again for her offer. Father has turned away from us completely, facing the wall with his hands on his hips, and I allow myself to be escorted from the room without protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun researching turn-of-the-century Coney Island in preparation for this story and thinking about what Phantasma could be. In a way the park is Erik's self-portrait, and in trying to adapt "The Beauty Underneath" I latched onto the idea of Beauty and the Beast as an aesthetic for the park, so you have a forest, roses, the "beast" in his lonely tower, etc. The idea is to be confronted with things that are regarded as frightening, monstrous, & transgressive in order to normalize them and subvert those assumptions. I _love_ the idea of Erik taking his mask, this lifelong symbol of his dehumanization, and turning it into a highly sought-after commodity, where hundreds of people flock to Phantasma for the privilege of being made into "phantoms" :D Also I'm turning 33 tomorrow!


	4. The Music & The Musician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gustave sees a show, finds a dragon, and climbs a tower.

Gangle walks ahead of me as we emerge once more into the labyrinthian hallways of Backstage, which are largely deserted now. I am grateful for this, as it allows me to press the cuff of my jacket to my eyes unobserved. Gangle seems to sense the precise moment when I have regained my composure and falls in line next to me, walking with her hands behind her back and speaking as though none of the unpleasantness we just witnessed happened at all. 

“I imagine you are more familiar with our world than most visitors to Phantasma, _petit maître_. Have you seen many theaters like this one?”

“Yes...and no,” I admit, “I’ve never seen _any_ place quite like this.”

The corners of Gangle’s mouth curl in a satisfied smile and she holds her head a little higher. 

“Here at Phantasma we have the most sophisticated, independently operated theater company in the city. We collect the best overlooked talent from every other venue because they respect Mr. Y’s genius and the work that we’re doing here.”

I am struggling a little to keep up with her rapid English but I do not want to appear as though I do not understand, so I cast about for something intelligent to say in response.

“Is Mr. Y very involved in the shows themselves?”

“He is our composer. Every piece of music we perform is his original composition and arrangement.”

In spite of the fact that I have been studying one of Mr. Y’s pieces for weeks now, I am surprised by this information. It occurs to me that I have been thinking of Mr. Y predominantly as an architect, designer, and businessman. _What doesn’t he do?_ I wonder. 

“That must keep him very busy,” I say.

“Oh it does. Mr. Y is almost never seen outside of his personal quarters, and only a select few are permitted to visit him there.” 

We have reached a closed door labeled _Stage Right_ and Gangle opens it for us, leading me up another narrow, even dimmer staircase. We emerge into the dark high-ceilinged wings of the stage, its walls hidden behind a multitude of curtains and sliding wooden backdrops. A single ghost light stands in the middle of the stage and I follow Gangle out to it, where an enormous black curtain has been pulled across to block our view of the auditorium. 

“Why a black curtain, and not red?” I ask.

Gangle raises an eyebrow, her hands held behind her back.

“Because most theaters have red curtains, and we are not like most theaters.”

I recognize that she is teasing me and smile at her deliberate mysteriousness, just as a stagehand emerges from the darkness of the left wing and inclines his head towards Gangle, briefly pinching the tip of his cap with thumb and forefinger in a kind of salute.

“Mistress. Everythin’ alright?”

“Splendid Hank, thank you, I’m just giving a tour to a personal guest of Mr. Y. May I introduce Monsieur le Vicomte Gustave de Chagny.”

The stagehand looks impressed as he bows to me and gives his cap another respectful pinch.

“Best regards, sir,” he says, as though I am some kind of visiting dignitary, “We’re all lookin’ forward to your mam’s show. Mr. Y ordered a special backdrop just for her.”

Footsteps and voices are beginning to echo up from the stairwell behind us and Gangle pulls out a silver pocket watch, making a light clicking sound with her tongue.

“Hank, given that we are rapidly coming up on the next performance, would you recommend the best spot for Gustave to watch it from?”

I look up at her in delighted surprise and Hank smiles. 

“Well considerin’ this is a special tour, we can’t have him sittin’ with the common rabble.”

In no time at all I am down in the orchestra pit being introduced to the band members, along with their conductor, a dark-skinned south Asian woman named Devya who does not appear much older than Mother. Gangle has business to attend to, and a stool is provided for me in the corner of the pit where I will not be in the way. The auditorium itself is wondrous, a different thing entirely from the lobby and the outside of the building. While most European theaters are lavishly embellished with a king’s ransom in gold leaf and cut crystal, this one seems to have been plucked directly from the heart of the sea. The seats are upholstered in cobalt blue, and shades of slate, silver, pearl and white fill the color palette. Every inch of white moulding along the columns, mezzanine, balcony and private boxes has been elaborately carved with an abundance of seashells, crustaceans, and fish. A great number of these are not white moulding at all, but frosted glass with lights set inside of them. At the side of the stage King Neptune emerges from the wall with his trident, holding aloft a glowing chambered nautilus. The dome which I glimpsed from outside is positioned directly above the audience and displays a beautiful fresco of waves crashing beneath cotton candy-colored clouds in a fresh morning sky.

Given how lovely the weather is and the sheer number of sights to be seen on Coney Island, I am surprised at the number of people making their way into the auditorium, their eyes continuously drawn towards the stage in anticipation of the moment when it will come to life. Once the occupants of the orchestra pit see that I am quite capable of being still and silent, they mellow to my presence substantially, arranging their sheet music as I squint to see whether I can recognize Mr. Y’s handwriting or notation on any of it.

Phantasma’s ten o’ clock matinee is yet another surprise. It takes the form of a variety showcase, composed of ten different acts which vary in length from short comedic songs to longer dance pieces. Every act has a different backdrop, the impressive wooden panels sliding easily on and off the stage, their effects aided by various theater mechanics and optical illusions which make the audience gasp and whisper excitedly to each other. For the most part I am able to guess the secrets of their operation at a glance, but a handful are entirely beyond my comprehension, and I am transported by the spectacle of it all. 

A contortionist painted as a blue Arabian djinn unfolds from an enchanted lamp like anthropomorphized smoke, producing gold and flowers seemingly out of thin air. Aerialists fly and fall on lengths of aquamarine silk, making the audience gasp out loud and break spontaneously into applause. Elaborate headpieces made of bone and ragged worm-eaten shrouds are worn during a full moon festival in a cemetery, where the joyous revelers are actually wraiths of the departed. The audience grows quiet during this act. Each dancer has been made up to suggest the manner of their demise, and I do not know what emotions we are meant to feel at the sight of a happily singing and dancing little girl with large hand-shaped bruises painted on her neck, her small feet caked with grave dirt. It seems wrong, sinful even, to imagine that this _danse macabre_ is intended to be beautiful, and yet that is the truest word I can find for it. More than once I avert my eyes from the stage in shame.

The final act brings a dramatic shift in mood as Miss Giry emerges from the opening wings of a magnificent swan puppet the size of a pony. Her appearance works on the audience like sunrise after a storm, provoking effusive applause and cries of “ _The Ooh-La-La Girl!_ ” Her backdrop is rolled out as she strides to the center of the stage, and with a jolt of unexpected homesickness I understand that it is meant to be Paris, the Tuileries garden on a misty spring day. She is wearing a pale pink dress trimmed in black with a ruffled skirt and layers of swaying black petticoats. The band moves into her song and the pang in my heart deepens with the lilting croon of the accordion.

It is a ballad, in French, about being lovesick and lonely on a beautiful day, and while Miss Giry’s voice is not otherworldly in the way that Mother’s is, it is undeniably lovely and obviously well-trained. She is also quite a good actress, as the audience seems to have no difficulty comprehending the emotions of her song even if they cannot understand its lyrics. I for one am mesmerized and recognize immediately why she is the star of the company. There is something deeply haunted and vulnerable about her, even as she twirls and smiles beneath her parasol. As she wanders the garden the loveliness of the world continuously presents itself to her; a flower seller hands her a pink rose, a pair of laughing children dart past with balloons, and the flutes in the orchestra mimic birdsong which harmonizes with her during the song’s elegantly constructed bridge. A mixture of colored lights and shifting sets demonstrates that the mist is clearing, and with it the song begins to turn. The lonely girl in the garden gathers her strength. Her smiles become less forced, her voice confident, her movements more bold, until finally Miss Giry is spinning gracefully to the center of the stage where she casts her parasol aside and opens her arms to the audience. With a passion almost fierce in its defiance, she proclaims her will to be joyful as the song builds to its brilliant, heart-leaping conclusion.

The audience erupts into applause which borders on ecstatic, jumping to their feet and shouting their adulation. I see more than one person brush tears from their eyes. I am clapping fervently right along with them from the orchestra pit, completely disregarding any desire I might have had to appear dignified and worldly. The full cast comes on stage to join their Ooh-La-La Girl in the Tuileries where they take their bows to the continuing applause of the audience. The musicians likewise take their bows from the pit and the conductor, beaming with pride, steps up on a wooden footstool so that the audience can see her. As soon as the guests begin to exit the auditorium, the musicians turn to preparations for the next performance, which I have been told is only an hour and a half away, a total of five shows _daily_. The conductor is graciously showing me her full score, which bears Phantasma’s half mask and rose upon its cover, and we are deep in conversation about time signatures and dynamics when Mistress Gangle delicately clears her throat from where she stands above us at the edge of the pit.

“Did you enjoy the show, _petit maître?_ ”

“It was wonderful, thank you!”

“Are you ready to continue with your tour?”

~

“I should first tell you that I checked in on your mother a short while ago,” Gangle says as we return to Backstage. “She appeared to be in excellent spirits and was hard at work with Mr. Sherhorn,” she pauses, “Your father seems to have taken his leave some time before my arrival.”

I nod with as much casualness as I can manage, and Gangle’s expression softens.

“I have also just come from Mr. Y and he has invited you to see his private studio and workshop if you’re interested.”

A jolt of surprise which I utterly fail to control makes me stop in my tracks for a moment, and Gangle smiles as she watches me recover. While I promptly tell her that of course, I would love to see the workshop, I cannot deny that my excitement is also curtailed by apprehension as I think back on Mr. Y’s odd visit to the hotel last night.

The new warren of subterranean passages in which I now find myself seems to be for the use of Phantasma’s builders and craftspeople. Tired-looking yet industrious people hurry through the halls carrying heavy armfuls of costumes, sand bags, buckets of paint, pulleys, and lengths of thick rope, calling to each other from room to room in a bewildering jumble of argots. We make a detour into a well-lit room where two men sit at long work tables, the surfaces of which are cluttered with jars of paint, bottles of ink, and coffee cans full of brushes and drawing tools. Clotheslines strung from wall to wall bear brightly-colored advertisement posters and a closed door to our right is labeled _Dark Room_. The older of the two men, who appears to be in his late seventies, is introduced by Gangle as Sampson and the younger, his son and apprentice, as Winslow. They greet me enthusiastically, their fingers and clothes stained with every color imaginable, and express their admiration for my mother as well as their pride in being commissioned to create her posters for Phantasma.

“It's not an easy thing to match the work being created by your European masters,” Winslow says, “Alphonse Mucha’s portrait of her is sure to be unsurpassed.” 

“Having her here on Coney Island is an opportunity we certainly don’t take lightly,” Sampson adds, indicating a work in progress on his desk. As I draw closer to examine the emerging pencil sketch, however, I am confused by the title blocked out across the top in expert flowing script: _La Belle et la Bête, A New Opera Starring the Legendary Christine Daaé._

“Has Mother been booked for a longer engagement?” I ask, turning to Mistress Gangle, who addresses Sampson with an inexplicable quelling look.

“This would seem to be a personal endeavor, for practice perhaps?” 

He dips his head respectfully.

“It is, Mistress. I have long dreamed of seeing Madame Daaé at the opera.”

“Will you be able to attend her performance tomorrow night?” I ask. The two men smile at me.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Winslow says, patting his father’s shoulder, “We’ve been given permission to sneak in and watch from the back.”

“We should be on our way,” Gangle says. “Good day to you, gentlemen.”

It feels as though we have walked at least a mile Backstage and I no longer have any sense of where we are in relation to the rest of the concert hall. The material of the walls has begun to change, going from painted plaster to rough-hewn stone, the smell of which carries a hint of rich wet earth and creates the illusion that I am breathing fresh air. I am about to ask Mistress Gangle where we are when a great unearthly _roar_ comes from somewhere ahead of us, nearly making me jump out of my skin.

“What was that?” I ask, heart pounding.

“Nothing to fear, _petit maître_ , I assure you.”

More curious than fearful, I follow Gangle around a corner and gasp at the sight of a fully articulated mechanical dragon which almost entirely fills the stone passage. Each of the dragon's scales is enameled emerald green and its front claws grip the sill of a window while its great horned head rushes forward through the opening with another spectacular bellow, provoking shrieks of fear and exhilaration. As we approach I can see rose bushes in the bright sunshine beyond the window and turn to Mistress Gangle, almost giddy with delight.

“Mr. Y lives here in the tower, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

“I knew it!” I exclaim, and she laughs as I jump over the dragon’s tail to follow her. The stone hallway becomes an even narrower staircase which spirals upwards through the outer layer of the tower. I try not to think about the great height of the tower as my legs begin to ache, curiosity and excitement propelling me forward.

“Are all of the rooms in the tower for Mr. Y?” I ask after we have passed a sixth closed door.

“They are.”

“What does he use them for?”

“That’s Mr. Y’s business,” says Gangle, not unkindly.

After what seems like an eternity, my ears have popped due to our increased elevation, the staircase culminates in a landing from which a sturdy wooden ladder extends up through an opening in the ceiling above us. Gangle gestures for me to ascend first and moments later I have entered the most remarkable room yet.

It is a magnificent aerie with tall windows across which deep blue curtains have been drawn against the approaching midday sun. Lamps mounted to the stone wall glow from within frosted glass birds, a whole flock suspended in perpetual flight around the room. The main floor is occupied by a stunning piano, virtually identical to the one in our hotel room, a mahogany desk piled high with books, papers, and rolled blueprints, and a plush divan which is likewise stacked with papers and folios. Along with this central space there are also terraced platforms which support bookcases, a work table and bench covered in tools and pieces of machinery, supply cabinets full of meticulously labeled drawers, and at least a dozen automatons, presumably in the process of being built or repaired. There is a full-sized mechanical bear, a handful of snakes, and parts of a unicorn, among others which I cannot identify. On the far side of the room a second ladder extends to a loft which I imagine must constitute the space beneath the tower’s conical roof. I still have not collected my jaw from the floor when Mr. Y himself appears, seemingly from thin air, as he is nowhere near either ladder.

“Good morning, young vicomte, welcome to my sanctuary.”

Although he speaks at a conversational volume, his voice carries effortlessly, filling the whole space and commanding my attention at once. He is wearing black dress shoes polished to a mirror shine, black trousers and black suspenders over a crisp white shirt with obsidian cufflinks at his wrists and a black bow tie at his throat. He moves with surprising energy, coming to meet us as Gangle dips at once into a bow and I awkwardly follow suit. In this light, the heavy makeup Mr. Y wears on the left side of his face is even more noticeable and I cannot help but wonder as to its purpose.

“I hear you were able to attend one of our matinees,” he says, reverting to French, “Did you enjoy it?”

While his manner is polite and sincere, there is also an air of distraction to it, as though multiple conversations are happening around him at once. Even though he stands still with his hands behind his back, I feel a nervy restlessness coming off of him like heat.

“I did, sir, very much,” I say, attempting and failing to find words. “It’s a beautiful theater.”

He inclines his head modestly.

“And thank you for inviting me to your tower,” I continue, “Did you build the dragon downstairs yourself?”

“I’ve started training other technicians to help me maintain the various automatons of Phantasma, but yes, I design and build them myself.” He pauses and for the first time I catch a glimpse of uncertainty, as though he is following new script pages which he has not learned yet. “Are you interested in mechanics?”

“Oh yes, but science is my favorite subject in school, natural science, that is, and music.”

Afraid that I am about to start babbling, I close my mouth firmly. His expression has become enigmatic again, but there is a hint of a small, almost melancholy smile in the left corner of his mouth.

“An interest in music certainly makes sense, given your mother’s influence. Have you had a chance to make use of the piano in your hotel suite?”

“Not yet, sir, no.”

“You should; it’s one of the finest instruments in all of New York, second only to my own, of course.” He says this so matter-of-factly that I cannot tell whether he is exaggerating or not. “I have a couple of items to finish up here which shouldn’t take too long, but then I will be ready to continue your tour.” He breaks off to address Gangle in English. “Is everything in place for that?”

“Yes, sir,” she replies promptly.

“Wait,” I say, “You’re going to be coming _with_ us?”

He raises one eyebrow with a small quizzical tilt of his head.

“Did you imagine I was a prisoner here? That would not be a particularly effective way to operate a business.”

“My apologies sir, I just-” 

What I want to say is that I did not think he would willingly venture out in daylight, but I realize that I have no logical reason for this assumption and therefore cannot explain it. Thankfully, Mr. Y comes to my rescue.

“It’s quite alright, vicomte. Feel free to look around, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Gangle follows him to his desk where he pulls out a ledger and begins to speak to her in English, his tone low and confidential. Grateful to escape the spotlight of his attention, I continue gazing around at the aerie, feeling inspired and overwhelmed. My eyes come to rest on the piano, and even though it is one of the most familiar items in the room, or perhaps _because_ it is, I feel a deep yearning within my fingers, as though they are limbs which demand to be stretched after a long carriage ride.

“Excuse me sir,” I say, gesturing towards the piano during a pause in the adults’ conversation, “May I?”

Mr. Y hesitates, glancing between me and the prized instrument.

“I assume you’ve been sufficiently instructed to not bang away at it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another brief hesitation.

“Alright.” Then, as though someone has prompted him with a discreet nudge, “Thank you for asking.”

He and Gangle return to their business and I go to the piano. In the cloistered half-light of the room, surrounded by the glowing birds which could be doves of peace prized free of their stained glass windows, it seems a sacred altar object. The only melody I can think of is the one which has not yet been heard outside my own head. I carefully position my right hand and begin finding the notes of the lullaby I began composing aboard the _Persephone_. The sound of the piano is so lovely that I close my eyes for a moment, enraptured by how it reverberates within the high open space even though I am barely touching the keys. 

People are often surprised to learn that I cannot sing, my voice is resolutely uncoachable, but this deficit has never really bothered me. I do not think I would be content with a voice of gold as my only instrument. The music I hear in my head is so much bigger than that. Once my right hand is confident with the main melody, I bring my left to the keys and begin experimenting with a note of harmony here and there, deeply satisfied as a counter melody begins to take shape.

“ _What is that?_ ”

I jump, my hands flying away from the keys, and I turn to see Mr. Y staring at me from his desk while Gangle looks between us in confusion.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, “just something I’ve been playing around with.”

Mr. Y blinks at me.

“‘Playing around’,” he echoes, “are you saying that’s _your_ music?”

My cheeks are burning as though I have been too long in the sun.

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Y is very still for a moment, then releases the blueprint he had been holding, which scrolls itself in a papery rush as he strides over to the piano. Alarmed by the purpose with which he approaches, I get to my feet, prepared to move away from him and the piano at once.

“Here, play it again,” he commands, pointing to the keys, and I flinch, unable to tell whether he is upset with me. “Play it again,” he repeats.

I glance at Mistress Gangle, but she is watching Mr. Y, seemingly just as confused by his behavior as I am. At a loss for what else to do, I swallow and sit back down at the piano. I manage to play through what I have so far without mistakes, though not quite at the correct tempo. When I have finished Mr. Y does not respond right away, his posture fixed as a statue, before he suddenly comes back to life.

“Again,” he says, less forcefully. While I am still unsettled by his earnestness, I obediently play my meager half-song again, feeling his eyes on my hands the whole time.

“What is it about?” He asks when I have finished, and I tell him about the dolphin and what the crewman said about her, the mystery of her death and how beautiful she looked on her bed of seaweed in the bright sunlight. When I dare to look back up at him he has transformed yet again. His eyes meet mine, and I have the startling impression that…

That what?

That I have moved him?

Is such a thing possible?

Perhaps only that _something_ has moved between us. 

He glances at the piano bench, then back at me.

“May I?”

I smile tentatively and nod, scooting down so that there is room for him to sit next to me. Gangle is standing with her arms folded across her chest as she watches us with a pleased, if somewhat incredulous, expression. To my utter astonishment, Mr. Y asks me to teach him my song, and we spend the better part of an hour sitting together at his piano while he questions me about each note, why I chose them, the feelings and images I want to communicate through their progression, why I have chosen the form of a lullaby, whether or not I hear other instruments playing it and _why?_

It is one of the most remarkable experiences I have ever had. Indeed, as I sit there next to him I find myself searching through my memories for something comparable. The closest examples I can think of are those moments when Mother shares something honest with me, as she did when she told me about my grandfather, or when she read me that sad ancient poem during our voyage here.

Mr. Y does not speak to me as though I am a child, nor does he speak to me as though he is a wildly successful genius who composes real music and builds mechanical dragons and commands his own fantastical empire in one of the great cities of the world. It feels embarrassingly insufficient to say that we simply talk to each other as people, but on a fundamental level that is the truth of it. He hangs on my every word, drinking them in as though trying to commit them to memory, and he applies himself to my unlearned and childish composition as though I am going to be quizzing him on it later. When we have finished playing it through together, four hands in two octaves, I look over at him, beaming, and notice that his hands are trembling slightly as he lifts them from the keys, bracing one against the leg of his trousers while he briefly covers his mouth with the other. His mask faces me, so I cannot discern his expression, but I catch a shadowed glimpse of his right eye darting. After a moment he lowers his hand and clears his throat before turning to look at me, an oddly hesitant smile forming on the left side of his mouth as his dark eyes search my face.

“I promised you a tour of Phantasma, didn’t I. My apologies for becoming distracted, Gustave.”

There is the smallest hesitation before he says my name, the first time he has done so. Again I am at a loss to explain the rapport I feel with this strange, reclusive man, except that it is somehow embodied in the sound of his voice speaking my name. 

“There’s no need to apologize, sir. Your sanctuary is wonderful; I could stay here all day.”

His smile widens, just a little, and with an abrupt burst of energy he gets to his feet and shoots his cuffs before sweeping a black jacket from the back of his desk chair. While this jacket is shorter than the mourning coat he wore last night, he still looks far too formal for a summertime outing at an amusement park. However, I find that this aspect suits him, as though he was designed to be a Gentleman and must therefore never appear as anything else.

“Mistress Gangle,” he says.

“Yes, sir?”

“Would you please make sure that those reports are delivered to the contractor, I believe his office will be closed tomorrow and Monday, and tell Madame Giry that I still need to review her expense records from last month.”

Gangle’s expression sours noticeably after this last instruction, but she regains her brisk professionalism at once.

“Of course, sir.”

“Thank you. As for us,” he gives me another smile which carries a mixture of excitement and anxiety, “We are off to see Phantasma.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope there aren't any egregious typos in this (I'm so excited to get it posted and I need to go to BED) but if I find any tomorrow I promise I'll fix them :)
> 
> The scene of Mr. Y and Gustave at the piano is the most personal aspect of this story for me and I hope I've done it justice. I've only really started getting to know my own dad in the last decade or so, and I'll never forget the experience of meeting him again for the first time since I was seven years old and just _feeling_ to the core of my being that he was my dad as though he'd never been gone at all. I've been trying to write about it ever since and will probably continue to do so for a very long time. My dad and I are both a little quiet, a little odd, a little introverted, writers, performers and of course musicians <3


	5. Mr. Y's Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidden tunnels, two-way mirrors, magic bells, and the revelation of the mask.

Mr. Y’s enthusiasm is infectious and I find myself all but flying down the tower stairs after him, even as my head starts to spin from our spiraling descent. Upon reaching the ground floor he leads me in the opposite direction from the mechanical dragon and down a stone corridor into what I now suspect is a system of tunnels which runs beneath the whole of Phantasma. This supposition is confirmed almost immediately when Mr. Y comes to a halt and places the fingertips of his left hand upon one of the wall’s rough stones.

“First secret,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, “Do you see this?”

As I step closer I discern a kind of primitive sigil, about the size of a franc, carved into the stone, which consists of a square with a vertical line down its middle and a horizontal line bisecting its left half.

“This is my mark, Gustave. Anywhere you see this mark, its placement indicates the entrance to a secret passage or hiding spot known only to me.”

I look up at him, wide-eyed.

“Really?”

With a flourish of showmanship Mr. Y lifts his head and places his palm flat against the stone, watching my face as he does so. The stone sinks inward beneath his hand and from deep within the wall I can hear machinery come to life, a long vertical crack suddenly appearing around the stones. I realize what is about to happen as Mr. Y grips its edge and step back with a burst of delighted laughter when a section of wall, about the size of a playhouse door, slowly opens out into the corridor.

“Do you have any objections to the darkness, Gustave?”

The way he says my name continues to catch my attention, as though it is a sweet, if somewhat furtive pleasure which he is allowing himself. In response to his question I feel a slight hiccup of trepidation in my chest, but this is immediately overshadowed by my curiosity and excitement. I shake my head.

“No, sir.”

“It won’t last our whole journey,” he assures me, his tone becoming serious, “and you have my word that you will never come to any harm within the walls of my park.”

I smile at this considerate, if unnecessary, placation and follow him through the opening and into the pitch darkness beyond. The height of the door is such that Mr. Y is obliged to bend down in order to pass through it, but once beyond he straightens to his full height with no apparent difficulty. We stand in little more than a tunnel, just the height and width of Mr. Y himself, with a floor of hard-packed clay and walls reinforced with golden pine beams. Once the door has closed behind us the darkness is total, but I sense that Mr. Y is still near.

“Pardon me,” I say, feeling embarrassingly childish and therefore trying to speak with the most aristocratic pragmatism I can muster, “Would it be alright if I take your hand to avoid stumbling?”

“Oh...yes, of course.”

He has taken my hand almost as soon as I begin to lift it into the darkness, and in spite of the unprecedented situation I feel immediately at ease. Mr. Y begins to lead me along the tunnel and it occurs to me that I cannot conceive of any other circumstance under which I would allow myself to be taken by a near stranger into a dark subterranean world where I have been explicitly informed that no one else will be able to find me. Although I feel no fear, a voice in the back of my head says that perhaps I should. I do not know whether Mr. Y has memorized this tunnel so well that he can navigate it blindly, or if he simply has the eyes of a cat, but neither answer would surprise me in the slightest. It feels as though we have been walking for only five minutes or so before Mr. Y comes to a halt and I hear something like a curtain being carefully moved aside. Dim light fills a square aperture which has been cut into the wall of the passage. This opening is covered by a panel of tightly woven metallic fiber which reminds me of a fireplace screen. Mr. Y releases my hand, placing a finger against his lips, and beckons me forward to the window, where I am just able to peek through by standing on my tiptoes.

The window looks out into what I must call a room for lack of a more accurate word. The space appears to be roughly the size of our hotel sitting room and is defined not by four solid walls, but by trees whose branches, threaded with twinkling lights, form the ceiling. Phantasma guests, many wearing their souvenir masks, crowd together around an empty space in the center of the room. In the gaps between the trees I can see other park visitors passing to and fro within the depths of the enchanted wood. At first I am perplexed by the mystery of how no one in the room seems to have noticed Mr. Y and myself at the window, but as I look more closely I realize that there is a pane of glass on the other side of the screen, detectable only by slight imperfections in its surface. I surmise that our invisibility is due to some trick of this glass and grin up at Mr. Y, who smiles back. 

A ripple of excitement runs through the room as music begins, a high, reedy-voiced instrument the player of which I am unable to locate. There are gasps within the room and a number of people cover their mouths, their expressions a mixture of fear and rapt wonder as an olive-skinned woman walks to the performance space, her lean and powerful frame draped in living snakes. The largest of these has the circumference of my thigh and winds its smooth butter yellow body up over the woman’s right shoulder, down her torso and around her waist, its head swaying gently side to side as it curves out from the small of her back, its large green eyes gleaming. A multitude of smaller snakes dangle over the sides of what must be some kind of basket contained within the piled nest of the woman’s long black hair. She moves with great deliberation which is simultaneously effortless, and proceeds to dance in time with the reedy instrument, which has been joined by a small hand drum. 

The striped and speckled bodies of the snakes nestled within her hair curl downwards over her back, shoulders, and in front of her face. However, as I observe the crowd it occurs to me that her snakes might not be the true source of disruption within the room. The young woman’s beauty is striking, and while I assume that she must be wearing some minimal amount of clothing beneath the snakes, from my vantage point she appears quite bare. The voluminous floor-length skirts, long sleeves, and high collars of the female spectators heighten this illusion of nakedness considerably. The dancer regards her audience with a look of secretive pleasure and confidence, seeming to sense which individuals are most disconcerted by the performance and moving in their direction, lifting her arms so that the snakes can extend themselves inquisitively, tasting the air with their forked tongues. Several of the guests look as though they would like to exit the room once she has moved away from them, but no one does. They glance about as though seeking permission to be scandalized, and, realizing they are in the minority, avert their eyes in silence. 

Abruptly, the great yellow snake separates from her, and there is a stifled cry of alarm as the audience collectively draws back. The woman looks around at them, motioning for calm, and I quickly recognize that this must be the finale of her act. The music becomes slow and hypnotic as the woman and snake begin to “dance” together until the reptile is charmed to wind itself back around its mistress’ body. Likewise, the anxiety within the room has been coaxed into hushed reverence which yields easily to applause as the woman takes a bow, her snakes docile as sunbathing cats where they lounge upon her. 

Under cover of the noise within the room, Mr. Y moves to pull a black curtain across the window and I obligingly step back as the tunnel is plunged once more into darkness. I feel Mr. Y reach for my hand again and I acquiesce, grateful for his firm yet gentle reassurance. Once we have retreated a sufficient distance from the hidden window he quietly informs me that I have just seen _The Dance of Basmu_.

“In the ancient world,” he explains, “serpents were powerful symbols of protection, fertility, and rebirth, not the devilish tricksters they’re so often reduced to.” 

“I think snakes are wonderful. Did you know that solenoglyphous snakes can open their mouths almost one hundred and eighty degrees? They have the most advanced venom delivery method of any snake.” 

“The proteolytic venom found in vipers causes damage to blood vessel walls, hemorrhaging and muscle fiber deterioration,” he replies enthusiastically, and I tighten my hold on his hand.

A minute or so later we come to a halt once more and I am privately disappointed when Mr. Y opens another door, leading us out of the tunnel and onto the bottom platform of a stone stairwell, narrow as a chimney, which is illuminated by a gas lantern hanging from a hook in the wall. The “door” is much the same as the one which first led us into the tunnel system, and swings closed heavily, locking into place with a firm push of Mr. Y’s hand. I see his mark discreetly carved into one of the stones. He gives me a genuine, if somewhat shy smile as he takes the lantern from its hook and leads me up the stairs. 

Given that I have no idea where we are within Phantasma, I am at once surprised and not surprised when we emerge from the stairwell into a windowed hallway full of dazzling mid-afternoon sunlight. The windows look down from a height of at least three storeys into one of the gardens which flank the concert hall. The courtyard is still crowded with people waiting for their souvenir masks, and as my gaze moves to Mr. Y’s tower, the distance we have traveled beggars belief. He replaces the lantern on a second hook within the stairwell, then closes the door we have just exited through before coming to stand next to me at the window. 

“Is this part of the concert hall?” I ask. He shakes his head.

“Adjoining. This is my performers’ dormitory.”

I look up at him in surprise.

“Your performers live here in Phantasma?”

“Not all, just the ones who have nowhere else to go,” he pauses, “Would you like to meet one of them?”

“Of course!”

Mr. Y looks pleased and pulls a silver watch from an inner pocket of his jacket, checking the time. 

“He should be on his afternoon break; we’ll see whether he’s available.”

We proceed down the bright hallway in the direction of the concert hall, passing a series of closed doors. While some of these are nondescript, others bear small brass plates etched with both stage and, I assume, given names. Mr. Y comes to a halt in front of a door labelled _Zuberi_ and knocks. 

“Come in,” says a rich male voice, and Mr. Y opens the door. 

The first thing I notice as I follow my host into the room is a costume rack set against the wall to my right, which bears a contrasting assortment of fine-tailored European suits and what seem to be African tribal garments whose colors and patterns pop in my eyes like a wonderful kaleidoscope. A large mirror and dressing table dominate the left side of the room and at the table sits a dark-skinned African man in a navy blue dressing gown whose eyes are a startling pale green gold.

“I hope you don’t mind, I have a guest with me today,” Mr. Y says in English, half-turning towards me, “Zuberi, this is Gustave de Chagny. Gustave, this is Zuberi.”

“I’ve never met a guest of Mr. Y’s before,” says Zuberi with a reserved smile as he shakes my hand, “ _Vous nous visitez de France?_ ”

I do not immediately register his question, because shaking hands with him has left dark brown smudges upon the pads of my fingers which I am unable to account for until I look back up. While waiting for my answer to his question, Zuberi has turned back towards his mirror and wipes a small damp sponge across the side of his face, revealing a streak of milky white skin. 

“ _Oui_ ,” I respond automatically as my brain catches up with what I am seeing, “We arrived yesterday.”

Zuberi’s reflection in the mirror glances at me and I see a flicker of amused triumph in his pale eyes. He continues to remove his paint, and I find myself smiling as I absentmindedly wipe my fingers on my trouser leg.

“Zuberi is Phantasma’s foremost orator,” Mr. Y says in French, giving no indication that he has noticed my surprise, “Shakespeare, the classics, as well as the oral traditions of American Negroes.” 

“I’ll be speaking tonight in the courtyard as _Monsieur Gaspard_ if you happen to be in the area,” Zuberi adds, looking over his shoulder at me. Paint is separated from bare skin in a perfectly straight line down the center of his face, his expression both kind and appraising. “Are you diligent in your Latin?” He asks, and I smile self-consciously.

“Not as much as I should be.”

“ _Scientia potentia est_ ,” he says with a wink as he turns back to the mirror.

“Thank you for your time, Zuberi,” Mr. Y says with a small inclination of his head, “We’ll leave you to get ready.”

Zuberi returns the gesture and smiles at me again in the mirror as I bid him farewell. Once Mr. Y and I have resumed our walk along the sunny hallway he addresses me casually, his hands clasped elegantly behind his back.

“Have you ever met an albino before, Gustave?”

“No sir,” I pause, glancing back at the closed door which now looks like all the others, “He’s one of those...who has nowhere else to go?”

I feel compelled to ask the question even though I already know the answer. Mr. Y walks on my right side, so I am able to see the somber look which comes over his face.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Because of the color of his skin?” I ask hesitantly, and Mr. Y nods.

“Zuberi exists between two worlds and is often denied access to both of them. Those of his skin color can be prejudiced against his race, and those of his race can be prejudiced against his skin color.”

“Is it dangerous for him to perform here, in the open, as it were?”

“Phantasma exists to be a sanctuary for those who would otherwise be outcast or consigned to prisons and sanitariums. I count it as a mark of pride that no performer of mine has been harmed within its walls.” 

“Even so...I think in his place I would be frightened.”

We have reached the end of the hall and begin descending another set of stairs. Mr Y appears to be deep in thought, choosing his words carefully.

“I have no doubt that he experiences fear every day, but he and many others like him have discovered ways of confronting such undesirable attention.”

He pauses to look at me, a theatrical cue which all but requires me to ask-

“Like what?” 

“You _invite_ them to look, and you decide what they see. If you can control how they see you, you can control how they see the world.”

There is a dark relish in his voice as he says this, and I am still trying to parse out his philosophy as we emerge onto the ground floor of the dormitory.

“Would you like to see the props room?” Mr. Y asks, the abrupt change of topic jarring me from my reverie so that for a moment I blink up at him in confusion.

“I-yes, I would!”

He brightens noticeably and leads the way into yet another tunnel hidden behind his mark. As I hold his hand in the darkness I cannot help but wonder why he feels the need to move with such secrecy through his own park. _Is it a matter of personal preference, or would he be in danger if he were to mingle with his public? And what would he be in danger of?_

The props room is gloriously cluttered with all manner of delightful and mysterious objects, from human-sized silk butterfly wings to taxidermy animals to shelves upon shelves of exotic musical instruments. Mr. Y folds his arms and leans against a cabinet, watching with open enjoyment as I explore the room, wonder-struck. I find long garlands of assorted shells, teeth, and chimes hanging from the arms of an otherwise ordinary coat tree. When I reach out to drag my finger across a strand of small brass bells they emit a delicate little scale, making me smile. 

“They’re from Persia,” Mr. Y says, crossing the room to join me, “Herders put them around the necks of their camels so they can hear them at night.” 

I turn one of the bells in my fingers, noticing the elegant foreign script etched into it. Mr. Y hesitates, then reaches out for the garland and carefully detaches one of the bells. 

“In some cultures,” he goes on, “it is believed that the sound of a bell can ward off evil spirits. Here,” he says, holding the bell out to me, “For any future nightmares.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks in embarrassment, and my first impulse is to apologize as he places the bell in my palm, but looking up at him it is clear to me that I am not being teased or chastised. I smile, turning his gift between my fingers.

“Thank you, sir,” then, as a new thought suddenly occurs to me, “Were you the one who put the music box in my room?”

He looks taken aback, then slightly uncomfortable, his fingers moving restlessly at his sides.

“I was, yes. I hoped that it would be...something you like?” 

“It’s wonderful,” I assure him as I put the bell in my jacket pocket, “I’ve listened to it at least twenty times already.”

He smiles, looking relieved but also nervous again. 

“Do you like my park, Gustave?” 

I nod at once, hoping to dispel his inexplicable anxiety.

“It’s better than I ever imagined, thank you for showing it to me.”

The nervy energy which he seems barely able to contain only increases. He looks almost feverish.

“I’m glad you like it, because...there’s one last thing I wish to show you. The most secret thing, if you want to see it.”

“I would, very much!”

He appears to deliberate a moment longer, then takes a knee in front of me and slowly reaches up to his mask with one hand, and his hairline with the other, his eyes searching mine. My heart leaps with a strange combination of fear and excitement as he pulls away the mask.

How can I describe the revelation of this moment? What had I been expecting? To be painfully honest, my first thought is that he has simply revealed a second mask in jest. The skin is stretched tight where it is not broken in thick spines of scar tissue as pale as a fish belly, revealing raw, pink musculature and startling white bone. The right side of his nose is almost completely gone, as though someone cleanly scooped it from his face with a spoon. The cavity of his right eye appears to have collapsed, the soft tissue surrounding the bulb swollen and inflamed. With his other hand he has also removed what I now realize is a hair piece, revealing further horrors of scarring, discoloration, and fracture which suggest injuries no human body should be able to withstand. 

For a split second which is also an eternity, my mind refuses to comprehend what I am seeing, but then the face _moves_ as Mr. Y’s expression shifts with concern. The scream which rips from me is physically violent, compressing my diaphragm and shredding my throat as I turn and flee from him, blindly hurtling through the room’s main entrance and into the dim, now claustrophobic maze of what looks like Backstage. I hear Mr. Y call my name, hear the sound of his pursuit, which only makes me run faster until I round a corner and catch a glimpse of bright canary yellow. Mother is standing just inside an open doorway, and an inarticulate cry of relief and panic escapes me as I run to her. I barely hear her words of surprise and confusion, my arms tight around her, before I hear rushing footsteps behind me and startle like a rabbit which has just felt the near miss of a hunter’s shot.

Mr. Y is striding down the corridor towards us and all I can think of suddenly is the mermaid from my nightmare, dragging herself from the sea. He has replaced the hair piece and mask but for some reason this only amplifies my fear. I try to run again, but as I am unwilling to let go of Mother, end up fruitlessly dragging her a step or two into the corridor.

“ _Maman_ we need to go, please, _please_ we need to get out!” 

“Gustave, what’s wrong, what are you talking about?”

Mr. Y is almost upon us and I cry out again, heart pounding, and shake my head desperately.

“ _Please_ , he’s not-there’s something _wrong...I don’t know what he is!_ ”

In my peripheral vision I see Mr. Y stop dead a few feet from us and I feel a stitch pop in the fabric of Mother’s dress where my fingers tighten. I see comprehension in her eyes and her face goes pale as she stares down at me. 

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

Mother and I both start at the sound of Mr. Y’s voice, which has become so strange it is almost unrecognizable; precise as a knife’s point, something coiling in the darkness to strike. For the first time I notice Meg standing in the doorway of the rehearsal room with Mr. Sherhorn just behind her. The musical director’s brow is furrowed with alarmed incomprehension, and Meg looks almost as pale as Mother, her eyes wide. Mr. Y has not moved; his charming eccentricity has vanished and all I feel from him now is cold, mounting anger. The left side of his face is rigid and in the weak light of Backstage his visible eye is as shadowed as that of a skull.

“You didn’t really think I wouldn’t know.”

I feel an electric tremor run through Mother and she draws a ragged breath.

“Meg, I need you to take Gustave back to the hotel for me, please.”

“What? _Maman_ , no-!”

But Mother is not looking at me. She is staring at Meg and something unfathomable passes between them before the smaller woman gives one small, stiff nod. Mother begins to disentangle herself from my clutches, and when I resist she rips free of my fingers in frustration.

“ _Gustave_ , you are going back to the hotel with Miss Giry _now_ and that is final.”

The harsh command momentarily winds me, and it is only when Meg steps forward and takes hold of my hand that my panic returns, but so does my feeling of powerlessness from this morning. Mother’s arms are folded, her eyes flashing like lightning, but she is not looking at me. She is looking at Mr. Y. I cast about to Mr. Sherhorn, but he looks as though he is preparing to politely excuse himself, and Meg is pulling at my hand. Feeling as though I am going to cry all over again, I lower my head and leave Mother behind with the man in the mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Beauty Underneath" has been one of the hardest sections of LND for me to wrap my head around adapting because, well, it has some tonal problems. It feels like the musical is trying to establish some kind of life philosophy for Erik, so that's what I tried to do, thinking about how my Erik's character growth over the years could shape Phantasma. I particularly like his ideas regarding how context and perception shape reality. As I was writing this chapter I was a little worried that I had built up too much rapport between Gustave & Erik for Gustave's terror at the face reveal to be believable, but once I got to the confrontation between Erik and Christine it made sense to me that Erik's anger (combined with the unexpected horror of his face) would be particularly triggering for Gustave given everything he's been through with Raoul. It was also important to show the fraying of Gustave and Christine's relationship as she shunts him off with Meg :(


	6. Questions & Almost Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg and Gustave go to the beach, and Gustave tries to piece together the things no one is telling him as the puzzle expands.

I pay no attention to where I am being taken until a door opens and I realize that Meg and I have not emerged into the courtyard outside the concert hall, but a narrow dirty alley. Looking around in bewilderment I realize that the great stone wall at our backs is that of Phantasma, but my eyes have already lost the edges of the hidden door we have just passed through. Sightless brick and timber belonging to neighboring buildings hem us in, and the height of the walls keeps the alley shaded, a strange slice of evening with summer burning white along its edges. Near the far end of the alley a pair of sots are propped against Phantasma’s wall, their bodies so slack they appear dead. The sour smell of their open bottles mixes with the ammonic tang of urine and fills the alley. Meg does not appear to notice them and is already leading me in the opposite direction.

The alley opens onto the bright, bustling sidewalk of a thoroughfare I only dimly recognize from last night’s watery carriage ride. After my morning’s journey through the underworld of Phantasma the life of Coney Island is startling. The press of bodies is such that Meg, walking ahead of me, is forced to shoulder a path for us, seemingly indifferent to the reproving looks she attracts. For a moment I wonder that no one is exclaiming over this appearance of The Ooh-La-La Girl, but then it occurs to me that her fans may not imagine she exists like this; travelling derelict alleyways in a plain slate blue dress with her face washed paintless.

Mercifully, the crowd thins as we reach the road which runs past Phantasma’s gates, the humid swell of humanity releasing out onto the boardwalk and the beach. I can hear the music from a carousel and people applauding a juggler on the nearest street corner. Young women stroll in groups, fresh faces patterned with parasol lace shadows. Small children scatter popcorn and peanuts in their excitement. It seems impossible that such familiar things share a world with Mr. Y’s face, and the sight of Phantasma guests in their souvenir masks provokes a sick lurch in my stomach. 

Instead of turning towards the hotel, Meg leads me across the road and onto the beach, where she lets go of my hand to step out of her black silk slippers. They glitter with tiny jet beads in the sand as she continues walking towards the water, seemingly indifferent to them and to me. Completely thrown by this behavior, I collect her slippers in some half-formed gesture of gallantry and follow her, doing my best to dodge sunbathers and children's sandcastles. The cool, salty wind pulls at Meg’s hair and she tousles it impatiently, a cascade of pins coming loose and falling onto the wet sand. Ignoring the quizzical glances of surrounding bathers she walks straight into the water, up to her ankles, and stares out across the ocean with her arms folded, waves of red hair floating around her pale, tired face. 

“Miss Giry?” I ask in French, “Are you alright?”

“I suppose I should be asking you the same question,” she says, “It seems you’ve had quite a shock.”

I take a step back from the shifting water line, not wanting to get my shoes wet, and shiver as I remember his face.

“It was horrible,” I say, “like a monster from a ghost story.”

She glances over her shoulder at me, almost unrecognizable as the songbird twirling through her plywood garden in a pink dress. 

“That’s not very charitable, Monsieur de Chagny. Does his face make him any less human?”

When I do not respond she continues, her gaze sharp.

“Are we human because of how we look, or how we’re treated?”

I flinch in shame, unable to meet her eyes.

“Was he...injured?” I ask, my mind filling with grisly visions of warfare and industrial accidents.

“In every way possible,” Meg says absently, staring out across the ocean again. “How did you come to see his face?” She asks after a moment, her voice sounding far away. I swallow.

“He showed it to me.”

She blinks down at me, brows knit.

“He doesn’t show his face to just anyone, you know.”

“What does that mean?”

She crosses her arms more tightly about herself and it makes her look smaller, a diminishing substance. I cannot decipher her expression.

“I suppose it means you’re special,” she says.

I put my hand in my jacket pocket, fingering the little brass bell. It would strain credulity to believe that the gentle man who gave it to me could snarl so viciously at Mother not ten minutes later, had I not seen Father perform similar maneuvers countless times. I try to remind myself, as Mother so often has, that manhood is not a singular garment from which we are all cut, but this seems like a distant hope today. Again I feel a frisson of dread at the thought of Mother alone with Mr. Y.

“Do you not like the water?” Meg asks, glancing down at my feet with a small hollow smile.

“It’s not that,” I say, “I just don’t know how to swim.”

Her eyes soften a little and she turns away from the sparkling horizon, stepping past the grasping water to stand next to me.

“That’s too bad,” she says, “There’s a beautiful little grotto underneath one of the piers not too far from here, but if you can’t swim to it you have to wait until the tide goes out.”

“A grotto?” I ask, distracted and curious in spite of myself, “Like a cave in the island?”

She nods, looking vaguely amused by my enthusiasm.

“I’m not sure if it goes deep enough to be a cave, I just sit inside the entrance, but it’s the perfect place to be alone and listen to the ocean.”

I am aware of fellow beachgoers watching us surreptitiously as we talk. One balding middle-aged man in particular keeps glancing at Meg, his shiny face reddening until it looks like undercooked roast beef. His eyes dart away whenever the woman beside him turns her head in his direction, and I find myself taken by a feeling of protective comradeship towards my mother’s girlhood friend. 

“I would love to see the grotto before we leave, if I can.”

She smiles at me.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She casts one more look at the ocean before giving a deep sigh and holding out her hand for the black slippers, “I suppose we should get you back to the hotel before your mother finds you missing.”

I follow her up the beach to the boardwalk, where she leans against a railing and lifts the sodden hem of her skirt to brush the sand from her feet. They flex powerfully, every joint and vein prominent through sore, reddened skin. Mother told me once that you can always see the passion and sacrifice of dancers in their feet. Awkwardly gallant again, I produce a handkerchief from my trouser pocket which she politely declines. It is clear that she is trying not to laugh and I hope I do not blush as I stuff the handkerchief away.

Meg leads me behind _La Maison des Fantasmes_ to a discreet shadowed door where a young man in a kitchen smock leans against the leafy brick wall, smoking a cigarette. He gives Meg a respectful nod, keeping his head down as his eyes follow her warily. This back door lets us into a narrow hallway noisy with metallic clattering and overlapping voices. The air is warm and thick with the smell of cooking meat, and I gather we must be right outside the kitchen. A closed door on our left has a brass plate which reads _Madame Giry, Park Manager_ , and Meg pauses before it, turning to look down at me with a slight frown.

“Do you need me to accompany you to your rooms?”

Pride comes to my rescue and I shake my head with confidence.

“Not at all, Miss Giry, thank you.” 

She smiles prettily at me and reaches out to smooth the lapels of my jacket, a maternal reflex which has an odd uncertainty to it, as if she is attempting a new dance step.

“Well then,” she says, “off you go.”

It takes me a moment too long to realize that she is not going to enter her mother’s office until I have gone. Feeling embarrassed again and hoping it does not show, I bid her farewell. Once I have rounded the corner at the end of the hallway I pause, ears straining for the sound of a door opening and closing. Taking a chance, I peek back around the corner. The hallway is empty and Madame Giry’s door is closed. Without pausing to examine the prudence of my curiosity, I walk as swiftly and quietly as I can back down the hallway. Keeping one eye on the exit lest the cook return from his smoke break and surprise me, I press my ear to the door. I think I can hear two female voices, but no words are discernable over the noise of the kitchen. Disappointed, I abandon the effort and go searching instead for the elevator.

When Estevan lets me out on the fourth floor I find that I have no difficulty seeing the edges of the painted doors now, and wonder whether the spell of Phantasma has broken for me today. Melancholy settles like heavy hands upon my shoulders as I turn my key in the lock. Our suite is empty, all of its airy sunlit loveliness held like a jewel content to go unadmired. The decanter on the sideboard has been refilled and I find myself glaring at it like an enemy, ill-met in elegant company. For a moment I consider pouring it down one of the toilets, but the futility of such childish vengeance makes me sink even further into myself, and I drift away to my bedroom in defeat. 

The first thing I see is the music box from Mr. Y, bright and happy on the side table with my copy of _Frankenstein: ou le Prométhée Moderne_ next to it. I feel oddly apart from myself, as though I stand in the corner watching a boy who looks very like me cross the room and pick up the book before sinking despondently onto the edge of his bed. I find myself flipping through the pages, unaware of the passage I seek until it catches my eye like a splinter.

 _Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion, and straight black lips._

This description, which made me shudder the first time I read it, feels as bloodless as its printed page compared to the waking nightmare of Mr. Y. I find I have new sympathy for Victor Frankenstein and the primal horror which compels him to flee his monster. At the same time, I suspect that the young doctor will pay dearly for not listening to one unlike himself when he had the chance. However, in another corner of my mind, a kind of contrarian advocate rises up to point out that I, Gustave de Chagny, have nothing whatsoever in common with Frankenstein, apart from my indiscreet horror. 

I think back now on my earlier adventure with Mr. Y and feel...disturbed? Betrayed? Did he lie to me by not revealing his face at once? Why did it never occur to me that he wore a mask to conceal something he would rather not show? It was not unreasonable to assume that the mask was simply an affectation, adopted by a showman as part of his public persona. If he had met me unmasked, would I have played the piano with him and taken his hand in the dark? A more difficult question, this. I look at the beautiful music box and pull the small brass bell from my jacket pocket, running my fingertip along its engraving. Had I been better prepared, if Mr. Y’s face had been described to me before the mask was removed, I very much want to believe that I would not have reacted as I did. However, if Mr. Y’s anger had not been exposed, then neither would its cause. I turn my mind back to the mysterious half-conversation which seemed to be happening in the silence between Mr. Y and my mother, turning the bell in my hands.

The silence is broken by a key turning in its lock as someone enters our suite. For a moment I freeze, watching the crack of my half-closed door, but then I hear the swishing of long skirts and Mother is calling for me. Heart lifting at once in relief, I quickly tuck the little brass bell beneath my pillow and emerge into the sitting room. She turns towards me, hat in hand, and her smile falters, as though off-balance. To my surprise she lets her hat fall onto the nearest chair without a glance as she approaches me. I can tell that she wants to embrace me, but she pauses, clearly trying to discern whether I am still upset with her. She has been crying, the edges of her eyelids pink and swollen, making the blue green of her irises even brighter. Feeling desperate and sad, I step forward and put my arms around her. Even her smell makes me feel safe. She holds me tight, one hand between my shoulder blades while the other cradles the back of my head, her fingertips stroking through my hair.

“ _Mon coeur_ ,” she murmurs. It is a special pet name, spoken with quiet bewilderment, as though her heart had escaped from between her ribs without her knowledge and been unexpectedly returned to her.

“Forgive me, Gustave,” she says at last, “nothing has happened the way I hoped it would.”

I pull back to look up at her, considering my words carefully.

“Were you hoping...that I would never see Mr. Y’s face?”

There is an unhappy wince in her expression.

“Yes,” she admits.

As I search her face, a question I have never dared to ask my mother crouches on the back of my tongue. _Did he hurt you?_ Ashamed of my own cowardice, I ask another. 

“How did the two of you become friends?”

She doesn’t answer right away, biting the inside of her lower lip.

“He was my voice teacher, when I was still a ballet girl in Paris.”

I nod, thinking about the easy, commanding power of Mr. Y’s voice. My next question feels no less inappropriate than when I posed its variant to Meg, but I seem incapable of abandoning my curiosity.

“What happened to him?”

Mother sighs, and I see fresh tears starting as she looks at me.

“He was born, sweetheart.”

Before I can respond to this, the dining room door opens and Mother stiffens at once.

“Go into your room and close the door, Gustave,” she whispers, the strained calm of her tone making me obey at once. A small water glass has been provided in my en suite and I snatch it up, placing the open end against the closed door and turning an ear to its base. At first I hear nothing, which is almost more ominous than shouting, but I imagine that the sounds of Father pouring himself a drink are too subtle even for my spycraft.

“Are you going to say anything before you leave again?” Mother says.

There is a pause, and then Father’s voice, slurring and barely audible from the dining room.

“What would you have me say, Christine?”

His tone is mocking, on the verge of bitter laughter, and I have no doubt that he has been drinking continuously since he left us this morning.

“Actually,” he says, his voice coming through more clearly now, “I do have a question. How long have you known?”

“Known what?” Mother asks, her tone as passive as she can make it. I jump, though I’m not surprised, when the sound of a small object hitting the floor at force tells me that Father has thrown down his glass. When he speaks again his voice carries through the suite, every word painstakingly enunciated.

“That he was _alive_ , Christine. That he was _here_. Don’t you _dare_ try to tell me you didn’t know.”

I hardly breathe for fear of missing even the slightest sound. The silence around us feels absolute, a negation, and I imagine my parents standing rigidly, appraising each other through the open doorway.

“I have believed him dead for years, just as you have,” Mother says earnestly, “When we arrived last night...there was a note, left here in the suite for us, revealing Mr. Y’s identity, but I was so startled and afraid that I tore it up at once, hoping it was a prank. I didn’t want to alarm you, so I said nothing. I’m sorry, Raoul. I never imagined that this could happen again.”

It is perhaps a testament to my mother’s skill as an actress that I find myself frowning, reviewing our first tour through the suite in my mind, but a moment later it becomes clear to me that she must be lying, a hasty, even desperate lie which I immediately embroider with my own. I can already picture myself turning towards Mother at the sound of ripping paper and seeing her deposit the scraps into her en suite wastebasket. _No, I didn’t think to ask_ , I hear myself saying. 

“A note,” Father echoes slowly, and a shiver runs through me. “ _I_ saw no such note in the suite last night.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Mother cuts back, “It was nowhere near the whiskey.”

My eyes fly wide in shock and I drop my glass at the sudden thunder of Father’s footsteps. I fling the door open to see Mother moving away, about to tumble backwards over the piano bench. Father is standing over her, red-faced and disheveled, his eyes gone dark with rage. I have no idea what I am going to do, but I am prepared to do it, my limbs tense, hands in tight fists at my sides. My entrance seems to capture the three of us in a kind of suspended animation, as though our puppeteer has become momentarily distracted during a performance. Mother has gone pale, looking towards me in panic before turning back to Father, as though she dare not take her eyes off him. He sways a little where he stands, chest heaving, red mouth going slack, then moves away from her, weaving slightly as he walks back to the dining room, wraps his hand around the neck of the decanter, and leaves the suite with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been awhile! Preparation for Nanowrimo derailed my life, and my Hannigram poetry has been intruding on everything else, but I'm gonna try to get back on track here, because I love this story and unlike my other fics, there's an end in sight for this one! :)

**Author's Note:**

> My 2019 NaNoWriMo project - ties in with my other LND fic, "The Confessions of Christine Daae" :)


End file.
